Harry Potter and the Detective of Azkaban
by randomperson5972
Summary: It has been twelve years since the infamous Sherlock Holmes was discovered to be a fake, orchestrating strings of crimes to appear a genius as he revealed the solution to each case. Now, Harry Potter is about to start his third year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry with his friends Ron and Hermione, unaware of the danger that is headed his way...
1. Owls and an Incident

**Author's Note: Here it is! I really hope you like this, it's a retelling of Prisoner of Azkaban with a lot of the Sherlock characters and other aspects of the show woven into it. Please feel free to drop me a review at any time or point out any mistakes you may find, although I think I've caught them all. I had a lot of fun writing this…. **

**I have decided to offer my disclaimer as a syllogism. Fanfiction is when fans write fiction about what they are fans of and do not own. I am a fan writing fanfiction. Therefore, I do not own what I am writing about.**

Chapter One: Owls and an Incident

Harry Potter was a highly unusual boy in many ways. For one thing, he hated the summer holidays more than any other time of the year. For another, he really wanted to do his homework but was forced to do it in secret, in the dead of night. And he also happened to be a wizard.

Harry was lying in his bed, working on an essay for his History of Magic class (Discuss the influence of magical narcotics on Muggle affairs). He lived with his aunt, uncle and revolting cousin during the summer holidays, which was why he never enjoyed them very much. The Dursleys were nonmagical Muggles, and were completely opposed to magic in any form, including Harry. Harry had been forced to sneak his school books from where the Dursleys had locked them while his relatives were outside admiring Uncle Vernon's new car, in very loud voices, so that the neighbors would admire it too.

The clock next to Harry's bed that he had repaired two years ago showed 1:00. Harry's stomach gave a funny little jolt, for he had been thirteen for a whole hour without realizing it. Getting up from the bed and crossing over to the window, Harry opened it to feel the cool night air on his face and lightning-bolt scar on his forehead. It was a mark left on him by the curse that had failed to kill him nearly twelve years ago…he had only been a baby, but Lord Voldemort, the most powerful and feared Dark Wizard of all time, had singled him out as a target to kill. Voldemort had murdered both his mother and father before stepping over them to attack Harry, but something had gone wrong that night. The killing curse that had taken the lives of so many had rebounded on Voldemort, who was reduced to spirit and forced to go into hiding for years. But Harry had come face to face with Voldemort twice since then, at the end of both his first and second years at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Looking back on his last encounter with the Dark Wizard, Harry realized how lucky he was to have reached his thirteenth birthday.

Something was making its way across the sky towards Harry. Squinting through his round glasses, Harry struggled to make out what it was as it came closer. When it was feet away in the dark sky, he recognized his snowy white owl, Hedwig, and saw she was with two other owls. He stepped aside and allowed the three owls to swoop into his room through the open window. They had three packages and four letters between them. After receiving an affectionate nip on the finger from Hedwig, Harry opened his first ever birthday card.

It was from Ron, one of his two best friends at Hogwarts. Harry smiled to himself as he read the note about Ron's family's holiday in Egypt visiting his brother Bill, and grinned openly at his invitation to meet him in London before school started, hoping he could make it. Then he unwrapped the parcel that had come with it. It was a sneakoscope, which another note from Ron explained would light up and spin at any sign of treachery or magical concealment. The next card was from Hermione, his other best friend, who told him about how she had re-written her History of Magic essay to include things that she was learning about on her holiday in France, and about how Hedwig had come to find her to take him the present she'd ordered for him. Intrigued, Harry picked up that package and tore off the wrapping paper as quietly as he could, so as not to wake the Dursleys.

"Wow, Hermione," he whispered, as he revealed a sleek box marked "Broomstick Servicing Kit." Aside from his friends, the thing that Harry missed most about the wizarding world when he was isolated at the Dursleys was Quidditch, the best sport in the world (in Harry's opinion). It was a game played on broomsticks with seven players a team and four balls at once.

The next parcel was from Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper and a friend of Harry's. As he began to open it, however, there came a snap from within, almost as if it had jaws. Harry knew that Hagrid would never send him anything dangerous intentionally, but Hagrid didn't seem to have the same idea of what was dangerous as most people. He had been known to befriend giant spiders and croon over a baby dragon that he had christened "Norbert." Warily, Harry turned over the package over his bed. And out fell—a book.

It was thick and leather-bound, and Harry read the title on the cover, "The Monster Book of Monsters." The book suddenly lurched off the bed, and Harry was forced to scuttle around on the floor after it. "Ouch!" he said, as the book made a snap for his fingers from under the bed and managed to get the tips. As it moved out from under the bed, Harry made a swipe for it and his fingers made contact with the spine of the book. The book gave a sort of shudder and quivered under his touch, freezing. Puzzled, Harry ran his fingers over the spine again, and the book made a sort of contented sigh and lay still, docile. Harry picked it up, stood up again, and opened it to a random page. "The Hound of Baskerville," it read, and went on to describe a spectral dog that could manipulate the senses into believing it was much more menacing and terrifying than it actually was as a defense mechanism. Apparently this dog was sometimes used by killers to distract and confuse the victim before they attacked.

After carefully securing the book shut with a spare belt he had in the closet, Harry moved on to read the noted from Hagrid and the contents of a more professional-looking envelope that was from his school. "Think you'll find this useful for next year," Hagrid had written. This made Harry slightly nervous…why would Hagrid think that a carnivorous book would come in handy? Surely he wasn't expecting help with some new monstrous pet? Harry shook his head slightly, and went on to read the letter from Hogwarts, which informed him of the start of term on September first, as usual, as well as the fact that third years were permitted to visit the nearby village on certain weekends. He wasn't sure how he was going to get his aunt or uncle to sign the form that had been enclosed, but he knew he'd try.

Harry marked off another day on the calendar he had beside his bed counting down the days until his return to Hogwarts. Smiling to himself, he took off his glasses and lay down under the covers that he had been doing his homework under just a few minutes ago.

He was an unusual boy, but at that moment he didn't feel so at all—he was experiencing a perfectly normal feeling, the feeling of being glad it was his birthday.

Harry went down to breakfast later that morning and sat down at the table with the rest of his relatives. They were watching a news report about an escaped convict on the new television that had been a welcome-home-for-the-summer present for his cousin, Dudley.

"…The public is warned that Holmes is armed and extremely dangerous. A special hot line had been set up, and any sighting of Holmes should be reported immediately."

"No need to tell us _he's_ no good," snorted Uncle Vernon into his bushy mustache, staring over the top of his newspaper at the prisoner. "Look at the state of him, the filthy layabout! Look at his hair!"

He glanced at Harry grumpily, the first thing any of them had done to acknowledge his entrance into the kitchen. Harry's untidy black hair had always been a source of great annoyance to Uncle Vernon. Compared to the man on the television, however, whose pale and hollow face was surrounded by a dark matted tangle that fell past his shoulders, into which his sharp and high cheekbones disappeared, Harry felt very well groomed indeed. In fact, the convict's face had the appearance of a long skull covered in uncontrolled hair.

As the reporter moved on to cover another story, Uncle Vernon barked at the screen angrily. "When will they _learn_," he said, pounding the table with his large and purple fist, "that execution's the only way to deal with these people? Chuck 'em off a tall building, I say!"

"Very true," said Aunt Petunia, squinting into the neighbor's yard as if she expected to see the convict skulking across the neat lawns of Privet Drive.

"I'd better be off in a minute, Petunia," continued Uncle Vernon, pushing his silverware onto his now-clean plate. "Marge's train gets in at ten."

Harry, whose thoughts had started to wander over to his new birthday presents, was brought back down to Earth unpleasantly. "Aunt Marge? Sh—_she's_ not coming here, is she?" Aunt Marge was Uncle Vernon's sister, and each of her horrible visits stood out painfully in Harry's memory. She always did her best to pamper Dudley while making Harry feel miserable whenever she came.

Uncle Vernon snapped back that Marge would be here for a week, and that while she was here, Harry was to be on his best behavior. Also, he added, she had been told that Harry attended St. Bart's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys.

"_What?"_ yelped Harry.

But Uncle Vernon didn't want to hear it. He gathered his things and left the room for the car after saying goodbye to Aunt Petunia and Dudley. Gripped by a sudden idea, Harry followed him out. A few minutes later, he returned to the house, feeling slightly more cheerful. He had, in essence, threatened Uncle Vernon—if Harry were to remember that he attended St. Bart's, he would have to have some sort of motivation, in this case, the signed permission form to let him visit Hogsmeade, the village near Hogwarts. Otherwise, he might just let something slip…. His uncle had not been pleased, but had agreed.

Bounding up the stairs to his room, Harry decided to get a move on acting like a Muggle for the week of Aunt Marge's visit. He put away his new presents and schoolbooks, and let Hedwig out to fly around some. After awhile Aunt Marge arrived, and the dreadfulness began. Harry did quite well, he thought, for the first six days. It was on the last night of Aunt Marge's visit that problems arose.

They were all seated at dinner, which was fancier than what Aunt Petunia normally concocted, and Aunt Marge was getting steadily tipsier as the night when on due to the bottle of wine Uncle Vernon had uncorked earlier that evening. They had gotten through quite a lot of the meal without a single mention of Harry's abnormality. It was at dessert when Aunt Marge decided to begin questioning him. This was a favorite activity of hers; she loved to boom out ideas for his improvement while crooning over Dudley. "Where did they send you again, boy?" she demanded with a belch.

Uncle Vernon responded promptly, in case Harry didn't answer satisfactorily. "St. Bart's. It's a first rate institution for hopeless cases."

"And do they use the riding crop at St. Bart's?" she continued, looking at Harry expectantly. Uncle Vernon looked at him pointedly.

"Oh yeah," said Harry. "Yeah, I've been beaten loads of times."

Aunt Marge seemed slightly pleased, but she still found it necessary to comment, "If you can talk so casually of your beatings, then they clearly aren't hitting you hard enough. Of course, you mustn't blame yourselves for how this one turned out, Vernon and Petunia. It's all to do with blood, bad blood."

_Don't rise to the bait_, Harry thought to himself, staring at the tablecloth.

"One of the basic rules of breeding, you know," she continued. Aunt Marge bred bulldogs. "If there's something wrong with the bitch, then there'll be something wrong with the pup."

The glass she had been holding in her hand shattered, the pieces flying everywhere and the rest of the wine staining her hand and the tablecloth. Aunt Petunia shrieked, and Uncle Vernon glared at Harry suspiciously, whereas Dudley, on the other hand, barely glanced up from the television. After wiping her hand on the huge napkin spread across her lap and assuring Uncle Vernon and Petunia that she merely had a very firm grip, she pointing a meaty finger at Harry and continued to ridicule his parents. The atmosphere at the table had clearly changed, however, becoming tense and only Aunt Marge and the television program making any noise.

"And your parents…got themselves smashed up in a car crash, didn't they? Probably drunk, I expect," she said, clearly on her way to becoming so herself.

"They didn't die in a car crash!" Harry found himself yelling as he stood up.

"They died in a car crash, you nasty little liar," she asserted, helping herself to some brandy out of Aunt Petunia's glass. "Unemployed, weren't they? They did themselves in and left you to be a burden on their good, hardworking relatives—"

Harry was visibly shaking with fury as Aunt Marge suddenly stopped speaking, her chest swelling as if with suppressed rage. But the swelling didn't stop. She grew and grew as if with hot air and her already sausages of fingers grew to salamis. Rising a few inches from her chair, she hovered, and then began to ascend higher. The rest of the Dursleys were horror-struck, but Harry ran from the room. He took the stairs two at a time, running up to retrieve his possessions, and then slamming them into his trunk from under the stairs, the cupboard door springing open magically as he reached it. Hedwig's cage under his arm, he started for the door, but Uncle Vernon blocked his way.

"You go back in there and put her right!" He bellowed.

But recklessness had seized Harry. "No. She deserved what she got," and pushing past Uncle Vernon, he angrily marched down Privet Drive, carrying Hedwig's cage and dragging his trunk behind him.


	2. The Knight Bus

**Author's Note: Here's the second chapter! Please stick around for a few before you decide to stay or not…I PROMISE FREQUENT UPDATES. Really, I mean it. Unbreakable vow.**

Chapter Two: The Knight Bus

The trunk scraped across the pavement dismally. It was several blocks before Harry calmed down enough to slump down on the pavement and evaluate his options. He sure was in for it now. He had no Muggle money on him, and most of his gold was in his account at Gringotts wizarding bank. He had nowhere to go, and had broken wizarding law by using magic outside of school while still underage. Ruffling up his hair from the back with an uneasy hand, Harry gazed into the bushes opposite him. What _were_ his options? He gripped his wand, thinking…he'd done magic and was already sure to be expelled…surely doing a little more couldn't hurt? He could use his broomstick to fly to London, retrieve his money from Gringotts, and then…begin his life as a criminal, on the run from the law. Feeling fully downtrodden and unhappy, Harry stared at the bushes, wondering what to do. But something from the bushes was staring back at him. Something dark, with small, menacing eyes—Harry stuck his arm holding the wand out into the street, prepared to cast a spell to defend himself, when _BANG!_

Harry was thrown back onto the sidewalk with tremendous force as the squealing of a set of breaks split the quiet night air and blinding headlights illuminated the street. He thrust his hands behind him to break his fall as a gigantic, triple-decker, purple bus appeared in front of him, explaining the sound of the breaks and the bright headlights. Gazing up at the bus, he saw a young man in a purple uniform that matched it and quite a few pimples hop onto the steps leading to the pavement from the inside of the bus.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus," he read off of a card in his hand, "emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just tell us where you want to go, and we'll take you there. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I'll be your conductor for this even—'choo doin' down there?" he asked, dropping his professional manner.

"Fell over," said Harry, pulling out from under him one of his now bleeding hands for inspection.

"'Choo fell over for?" asked Stan, grinning amusedly.

"I didn't do it on _purpose_," said Harry, annoyed, and now searching for his wand.

"Wha's your name?" asked Stan.

"Uh…Arnold," answered Harry, saying the first name he thought of that wasn't his own. He didn't want to make it too easy for the Ministry of Magic. "This bus," he said, trying to steer the conversation away from himself, his wand now back in his hand, "it can take me anywhere? It could take me to London?"

"Sure, and tha's eleven sickles."

Harry sighed with relief. He had that much at least. He told Stan he'd like to go to the Diogenes Pub, which was the entrance to Diagon Alley. With his help, they loaded Harry's trunk and Hedwig's cage onto the bus, and put it down by one of the many beds that were crammed inside the interior like seats. Uncertainly, Harry sat down on it and flattened his bangs over his scar with his hand.

"This is Ernie," said Stan, introducing him to the man who was driving the bus and was wearing a thick pair of glasses. Harry handed over his money to Stan, and Ernie started the bus again. _BANG!_ and they were careening across a narrow country road whose frequent turns Harry didn't think the long bus should have been able to take, especially at the terrific speed Ernie had them going. Harry grabbed the metal posts of his bed and held on as they continued to speed along. Ernie didn't seem to have quite mastered the use of a steering wheel, but they didn't hit anything—the trees and occasional signs along the road jumped out of the way as they approached, and then back into place once they passed. Occasionally the bus would jump to somewhere else with a loud _BANG!_ and they'd drive a little further before dropping off a passenger.

Stan had taken out a black and white newspaper, a copy of the _Daily Prophet_, and had it opened to somewhere in the middle. Harry looked up at the moving, inky photograph on the cover, a picture of a gaunt man with sunken features, harsh cheekbones, and matted, long hair—

"That man!" said Harry, pointing at the paper in bewilderment. "He was on the Muggle news!"

Stan flipped his paper back to the front to look. "Sherlock 'Omes? Of course he was on the Muggle news! Where ya been, Arnold?" he said, acting superior. Handing the paper to Harry so he could take a look, he added "You should read the papers more often, Arnold."

Harry took the newspaper from Stan and read the headline: "HOLMES STILL AT LARGE."

The rest of the article was as follows:

Sherlock Holmes, possibly the most infamous prisoner to ever be held in Azkaban fortress, is still eluding capture, the Ministry of Magic confirmed today.

"We are doing all we can to recapture Holmes," said the Minister of Magic, Mycroft Holmes, this morning, "and we beg the magical community to remain calm."

Mycroft Holmes has been criticized by some members of the International Federation of Warlocks for informing the Muggle Prime Minister of the crisis.

"Well I had too, really," said an impatient M. Holmes. "Sherlock Holmes is a danger to anyone who crosses him, magical or Muggle. I have the Prime Minister's assurance that he will not breathe a word of S. Holmes's true identity to anyone. And let's face it — who'd believe him if he did?"

While Muggles have been told that S. Holmes is carrying a gun (a sort of metal wand that Muggles use to kill each other), the magical community lives in fear of a string of crimes like the kidnappings and murders S. Holmes committed twelve years ago as part of his plan to appear a genius as he revealed the solution to each of the cases.

"He murdered people," said Harry, aghast, "just to make it out that he was a genius by telling everyone how it had happened?"

"Yep," said Stan, taking back the newspaper. "Been in Azkaban ever since, 'til now, o' course. Enjoyed quite a bit o' fame beforehand, too. Remember that case with that driver before you, Ern? Mind you, I wasn't working here then, but I 'eard about it, alright."

"What happened?" asked Harry.

"Some sort o' mad driver, used to drive this thing 'fore Ern here, killed off a few o' the passengers."

Ernie shivered while jerking the steering wheel madly as they sped down a street somewhere in Edinburgh. "Sommat about a good bottle and a bad bottle, I think. Makin' them take a pill to kill 'em. Thought they were suicides at first, them police did. But that Holmes man, he cornered that one after a while, and then whiles they in the same room, that mad driver gets shot, shot right through the chest. Guess that Holmes did him in, now I look back on it, Stan."

"Yeah, well, 'ee got all o' the credit for catching that serial killer, and things like that happened for awhile. 'Came a sort of celebrity, 'ee did, 'for they found 'im out. Kidnapped couple o' kids once, too."

Harry stared into the eyes of Sherlock Holmes, the only part of the face that didn't seem dead in the picture. He had noticed how Sherlock Holmes and Mycroft Holmes had the same last name, and wondered if they could be related. But that just seemed too strange—clearly they had nothing in common, and no one had raised it in the article.

Eventually the Knight Bus was speeding through the night streets of London, and they stopped outside Diogenes Pub with a horrible screeching of breaks. Harry hopped down onto the pavement and received his trunk and cage from Stan. "Bye, then," he said once he had everything. But Stan was looking past Harry, a look of surprise on his face, and Harry felt a hand close down on his right shoulder.

"There you are, Harry!" said a voice that sounded slightly relieved, but mostly controlled and reserved. Harry turned around to see Mycroft Holmes, the Minister of Magic, standing behind him.

"'Arry?" asked Stan. "Why're 'oo calling Arnold 'Arry, Minister?"

"Arnold? This is Harry Potter," answered Mycroft Holmes.

Stan looked excited and called to Ernie "Ernie, guess 'oo Arnold is? 'Ee's 'Arry Potter! I can see 'is scar now, look, Ern!"

Feeling very, very glum, Harry looked back up at Mycroft Holmes, who was holding a lime green umbrella in the hand that wasn't on Harry's shoulder. "Come on inside, Harry, I want to talk to you," he said, not without a trace of sternness, although he didn't sound angry.

"Bye, Arnold!" called Stan, and Harry waved back hopelessly as he allowed himself to be steered inside by Mycroft Holmes, trunk and cage in tow behind him.

The Minister led him to a private room on the next floor, and gave instructions to the landlady to have his things put in an empty room for him. Holmes sat himself down behind a desk in a space almost like an office after closing the door behind him, twirling his green umbrella back and forth with the point on the floor. A witch with dark hair and eye shadow sat nearby, staring down at a piece of parchment across which she had enchanted a quill to write slowly without looking up.

"Please, sit, Harry," said the Minister of Magic, gesturing to a seat in front of the desk with some space between the two of them. Harry sat uncomfortably, but not because of the chair. He was puzzled by Holmes's firm air that still carried detached friendliness.

"Well, Harry, I am sure you will be pleased to hear that Miss Marjorie Dursley has been dealt with accordingly. Two members of the Accidental Magical Reversal Squad were sent to Privet Drive this evening to return her to her normal state and erase her memory. She will not remember tonight at all."

Harry nodded, not sure what to say. He was feeling slightly numb, ready for the bomb to drop.

"Are you thinking of how your uncle and aunt reacted? Well, I won't try to pretend that they are not angry, Harry. They are, but they have agreed to take you back next summer, provided that you stay at Hogwarts for the Christmas and Easter holidays," said Mycroft Holmes.

Harry wetted his dry throat enough to respond. "I _always_ spend the Christmas and Easter holidays at Hogwarts, and I never want to go back to Privet Drive again." Then something clicked with him. If the Dursleys had been told he could stay at Hogwarts over these breaks, then that must mean he hadn't been expelled.

"Now, now, Harry. Surely you don't mean that. I'm confident that once you've had a chance to calm down you'll feel differently. They are your family, after all, and I'm sure you are fond of each other —er— _very _deep down." Harry couldn't help but notice how Holmes's voice seemed to flatten a little as he said this about family, and his eyes seemed to take on a sad quality momentarily. The moment soon passed, however, and he went on to advise Harry to take a room at the Diogenes Pub.

"Hang on," said Harry. "What about my punishment?"

"Punishment?"

"I broke the law! Underage wizards aren't allowed to use magic outside of school."

If everything about him hadn't suggested otherwise, Harry might have thought the Minister looked uncomfortable. "Well, surely you don't want to be punished?"

"No, but I still don't under—"

"Then what's all the fuss about?" asked Mycroft Holmes. "Now, as I was saying, I will check for you with Mrs. Turner, the landlady, if that room we had your things put in will be available for the next three weeks until your return to Hogwarts. And Harry, while you are here, I would prefer that you stay in Diogenes Pub and Diagon Alley. It would be best if you didn't wander around Muggle London."

Harry nodded, and gulped slightly. Mycroft Holmes smiled at him benignly and stood up from the desk with his umbrella, as if getting ready to leave.

"Wait, Minister, I was wondering if I could ask you something," said Harry, standing also.

"Yes, Harry?"

"Um, third years at Hogwarts are allowed to visit the village sometimes, and I was wondering—"

The Minister had begun to shake his head slightly as he watched Harry.

"It's just that my uncle and aunt didn't sign my permission form, and…" Harry stopped after this last effort, knowing the answer.

"I'm sorry, Harry, but I'm not your guardian, and—" he kept going, in case Harry tried to object, "I think it would be best if you didn't wander while at school, either. No further than Dumbledore…yes, well…," he muttered to himself. "I'll be off then. He smiled down at Harry kindly again. "Anthea," he said to the witch, who picked up her parchment and ink bottle, still intently watching the quill slide across the page as she followed the Minister out of the door.

Harry sighed, though still more puzzled by everything that had happened than anything else, and left the room also after a moment to find Mrs. Turner, and elderly witch dressed in emerald-colored robes, waiting for him.

"I'll show you upstairs to your room, young man," she said. "Here it is, first door there on your right." She saw him in, and stopped as Harry let out an exclamation of pleasure.

"Hedwig!" He said, going to the wardrobe so that she could fly down to rest on his shoulder.

"She's a smart one," said Mrs. Turner. "Arrived just after you did. Now, you take care of yourself, and if you need anything, you just come down and let me know."

She left, and Harry sat down on his bed with Hedwig. "It's been a weird night," he said to her. He stared out of his small window at the dark streets on Diagon Ally, feeling as if it had been only minutes ago he had been watching Aunt Marge swell at the dinner table. Now, he was miles away in a room above Diagon Ally, having just met with the Minister of Magic, who didn't seem upset with him at all, but protective, if anything. Here he was, away from the Dursleys, and back in the magical world for the weeks leading up to his return to Hogwarts.

Harry settled Hedwig on her perch, and then slumped back on the bed, asleep within minutes.


	3. Diogenes Pub

Chapter Three: Diogenes Pub

It took Harry awhile to get used to his strange new freedom, but it was wonderful. He could wake at whatever time he wanted in the morning, eat the breakfast he chose downstairs in the pub, and the shops of Diagon Alley were many and fascinating enough that he had no desire at all to break his promise to Mycroft Holmes and stray into the Muggle world.

Three Dursley-free weeks of the summer holiday stretched before him, and Harry was enjoying them greatly. He liked to watch the funny guests who came to stay at Diogenes Pub or take their meals there, to examine the magical merchandise in the shop windows of the alley, and he no longer had to do his homework in the dead of night under the covers, but could take it outside and finish in the streaming sunlight outside Angelo's Ice Cream Parlor. Aside from knowing quite a bit about the influence of magical narcotics on the Muggle Opium Wars, Angelo himself gave him free sundaes every half hour.

Whilst staying in Diagon Alley, Harry also decided to take care of his school shopping as he waited for Ron and Hermione to arrive. They had both talked about coming to London at the end of break, but neither had been specific about when. Harry knew that while he was staying at Diogenes Pub he was sure to see them if they did come because they would have to enter through the pub to complete their school shopping. Harry bought new robes for himself, as his old ones had become too short of late, and refilled his potions kit and bottle of owl treats for Hedwig. He also stopped by Flourish and Blotts one day to retrieve his new spellbooks. The manager was much relieved to hear that he already had a copy of _The Monster Book of Monsters_, which was apparently the required textbook for Care of Magical Creatures, one of the two new classes he would be starting this year. This relieved Harry, too; the book was for class, not some terrifying new project of Hagrid's.

Past the copies of _London A-Z_ and other guide books, the manager led him to the back of the room where the Divination books were kept so he could buy the required reading for his other new subject. As the manager handed _Unfogging the Future_ down to him, however, Harry's attention was distracted by a large, dark book that was sitting on a round table and propped up by a small stand.

"Death omens?" said the manager, following his gaze. "Not exactly a light read. Best to stay away from that one, I think. You may start seeing them everywhere."

Harry wasn't staring at the title (_Death Omens: What to Do When You Know the Worst is Coming_), but at the picture beneath it that took up the rest of the cover; it was a hawk with piercing grey eyes, and sharp features.

"Anything else?" asked the manager.

"Er, yes," said Harry. "I need…_Intermediate Transfiguration_ and…_The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 3._" After the manager had found these for Harry and he paid, Harry went back to his room to tip his new schoolbooks onto the bed and stare in the mirror reflexively. The hawk on the cover of that book had been familiar to Harry, and he was sure that it looked just like the creature he had seen before the Knight Bus had picked him up. But how could it be a death omen? He couldn't have seen a death omen! He had been too preoccupied that night, jumpy about everything around him. Surely he had just been panicking? Anyway, he wasn't even sure that it had been a hawk he'd seen. He hadn't even recognized it as a bird at the time, though now he thought it was. But there were tons of birds, tons of birds of prey, even, and it was silly to jump to the conclusion that it had been a hawk, especially a very specific one that was on the cover of a book miles away.

Harry shook his head of these thoughts, and then, catching sight of himself in the mirror, automatically raised a hand to flatten his bangs.

"You're fighting a losing battle there, dear," said the mirror wheezily, in a voice that made him think vaguely of Mrs. Turner downstairs.

The day before he was to return to Hogwarts, Harry had almost entirely resigned himself to the idea that it was unlikely he'd meet Ron or Hermione in Diagon Alley. At least he'd see them on the Hogwarts Express the next day, and then, more fun than usual as this holiday had been, he was looking forward to starting a new term at Hogwarts immensely. Harry bounded down the streets of Diagon Alley. It was outside his favorite store, Quality Quidditch Supplies, that he then stopped to admire the window display. He had to do so, however, over the heads of a small crowd. For there, in the window, was a spectacular, brand-new racing broom.

"The Firebolt," read the sign erected next to it, going on to describe exactly how each part of the broom was built, how that made it absolutely perfect, and why you should immediately buy it. The small note at the bottom, however, read "price on request." Not liking to think of how much the Firebolt would cost and reminding himself that he had four more years of school things to purchase with what his parents had left him, Harry turned away from the shop.

"Harry!"

Ron and Hermione were sitting outside Angelo's, huge fruit and chocolate ice creams in front of them, waving to him excitedly.

He crossed over to their table, and huge grin spreading across his face, and the three of them talked happily for a few minutes. Harry was so glad to see them at last. Ron and Hermione wanted to talk about the incident with Aunt Marge ("Did you really blow up your aunt, Harry?" Hermione had asked reproachfully, and Ron entertained them with a speculative anecdote about what would happen to _him_ if he ever did that to his great aunt Muriel) and discuss the new subjects they would be taking this year, Hermione apparently having been cleared to take everything. After this, they walked over to the magical menagerie to look for an owl for Hermione; he parents had left her a little extra money to buy herself an early birthday present, and that was what she had decided she wanted.

Ron also wanted to have his pet rat, Scabbers, looked over by the witch there. When he took him up to the counter to show him to her ("He's been looking a bit off color since I brought him back from Egypt," he told her), Hermione wandered over to look along the many perches where owls were nesting, many asleep, and Harry at a basket of cooing, Tribble-like creatures.

"CROOKSHANKS, NO!" shouted the witch, as a huge, orange animal dived on top of Ron's head. Yelling madly, Ron lost sight of Scabbers as he slid from the counter, shooting out the open door, the witch trying to pry the animal she'd called Crookshanks off of Ron's head.

It took a few minutes for Harry and Ron to find Scabbers, once Ron had been properly disentangled from the feline. Ron scooped Scabbers up from the ground, and Hermione came up behind them, cuddling the orange cat. Ron and Hermione bickered for a little over her new pet, but that was to be expected. Was there much that could happen to them that they wouldn't bicker about?

That evening, after a fully enjoyable dinner with the Weasleys at Diogenes Pub, Harry was packing up his things for the journey back to Hogwarts the next day. Next door, Percy, one of Ron's older brothers, was tearing apart his and Ron's room, looking for the new prefect badge that had apparently gone missing. Harry looked around his own room, wondering what could have happened to his sneakoscope. He decided to check back downstairs—he had shown it to Hermione at dinner and perhaps he'd left it on the table.

Sure enough, the small glass top was sitting on the thick wooden table they had been eating at. Harry picked it up and then started going back upstairs. He was about to enter his own room when he heard his name coming from behind the not-quite-closed door to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley's room. Curiosity got the better of Harry, and he stopped to listen quietly.

"Harry's faced plenty of danger before, this won't be too much for him, and, in fact, this will be protecting him from more! He needs to know, or he might do something stupid without knowing it that could lead to him getting hurt," said Mr. Weasley's voice.

"I don't think so, things are just different this time. He'll be at Hogwarts, near Dumbledore, and nothing bad will happen to him as long as Dumbledore's there. Telling him this would only terrify him! There's just no need. I agree with Mycroft Holmes for not telling Harry," argued Mrs. Weasley.

"If the Knight Bus hadn't picked him up that night, there's no doubt that Harry would be dead now, and it would make no difference whether or not Mycroft had been planning to tell him. Sherlock Holmes is dangerous, they say he's mad, and what if Harry decides to run away like that again? That was a very close call, and he can't get so lucky twice!"

"Arthur, listen to me. Harry is a young boy, and he doesn't need this hanging over his head just as he's starting school again. The Azkaban guards will catch Holmes soon enough, and then this will all be over and he need never know that Holmes was after him."

"I don't agree. If you ask me, Holmes is mad. If he wasn't when they put him in there, he's sure to be now. He kept muttering in his sleep, Mycroft has said, 'He's at Hogwarts, he's at Hogwarts.' They're almost certain he was in with the Death Eaters, Anderson's given testimony, and that would only make this person at Hogwarts be Harry. If you ask me, Holmes has broken out of Azkaban to break into Hogwarts and kill Harry, or get him sooner if he can."

"But what would be the point of that?"

"Probably a desperate attempt to make us all believe he really is a genius, and he would get rid of the boy who destroyed You-Know-Who while he's at it. And he's said to be a psychopath. If he could break out of Azkaban, which he's already done, and is the first to ever do, break _in _to Hogwarts, with all of its enchantments, _and _kill Harry under the nose of Albus Dumbledore, then he would certainly be cleverer than the rest of us, even if he's still raving mad."

"Then I really don't see why you're worried. Harry will be on the train to Hogwarts tomorrow, and then Holmes's chances of getting to him are barely existent. We'll leave this to Dumbledore, Arthur." The Weasley parents' voices died away as they moved further within the room to get ready for bed. Harry crept past their door, ready to go through his own, but before he could get very far, his sneakoscope began to spin and light up in his hand, emitting a high-pitched whistling noise that made Percy poke his head out of his and Ron's room in annoyance.

"Sorry, Percy," said Harry, entering his own room, in which the sneakoscope began to calm down. Heclosed the door behind him and packed it away, then sat on the edge of his bed to think about all he had just heard.

His thoughts certainly weren't on the piece of concealment detection technology he had just wrapped up in a knobbly pair of Uncle Vernon's old socks; he was pondering what Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had said, about Holmes escaping from Azkaban to come after him. It seemed like an insane thing to do, and it didn't make any sense at all to Harry, but perhaps Holmes really was the mad psychopath they said he was. In spite of this possibility, Harry wasn't very nervous about the prospect of an experienced murderer looking to kill him. For some reason, he felt quite calm as he sat on the edge of his bed. Certainly neither of the Weasley parents would have wished for him to find out like this, but he felt no worse because of it. In fact, what was bothering Harry most was that it now looked like his chances of visiting Hogsmeade were zero. He stared resolutely in his mirror, staring into the bright green eyes of his reflection.

"I am _not_ going to be murdered," he said.

"That's the spirit, dear," said his mirror sleepily.


	4. The Dementor

**A/N: Sorry this chapter's a little shorter…the next one is going to be longer. **

Chapter Four: The Dementor

"I need to talk to you two in private," said Harry, sliding the door to their compartment on the train shut. There was only one other person in there, a man wearing a very old, very shabby pair of robes over an ivory-colored sweater. Though he looked quite young, his light brown, blondish hair was streaked with gray in a few places. He was fast asleep, curled up against the window that showed the British countryside streaming by.

"Who d'you think he is?" asked Ron as they all sat down.

"Dr. J. H. Watson," said Hermione promptly.

"How'd you know that? How is it that she knows everything?" said Ron in a disbelieving and slightly whinny voice.

"It's on his suitcase, Ronald!" said Hermione, pointing up at a small and battered case sitting atop the luggage rack, with peeling letters that spelled "DR. J. H. WATSON" in one corner.

"Oh," said Ron.

After this, Harry proceeded to tell them about all he had heard Mr. and Mrs. Weasley say the night before, and about his encounter with Mr. Weasley at Platform 9¾. Just before he had boarded the train, Harry had been stopped by Mr. Weasley, who had tried to tell him that Holmes had escaped to find him. Harry had confessed to Mr. Weasley about overhearing his conversation with his wife, and although Harry was right about that not being how Mr. Weasley would have wanted him to find out, he was not angry. Instead, he tried to tell Harry something else he hadn't already overheard.

"Harry, you have to promise me, that whatever happens this year, whatever you might hear or rumors that come around," said Mr. Weasley, "that you won't go…go looking for Holmes."

Harry had been taken aback at this quite different approach. "What do you mean, looking for Holmes?"

"Just promise, that whatever you think you learn about him, you don't try to find him yourself," insisted Mr. Weasley, not quite answering the question. Harry had agreed, still not quite understanding why he was expected to do something like that, and wondering if there was even more to this that he hadn't been told. But the train was about to leave, and Harry had had to get on board before he could ask anything else.

Ron and Hermione were aghast. Hermione acted worried for him, and Ron merely stunned. "Oh, Harry, this is awful," said Hermione. "He's broken out of Azkaban to come after you?"

"Looks like it. Although it doesn't really make a lot of sense to me," he answered.

"Well, Holmes is a murderous raving lunatic, I'm not sure that anything he does makes any sense," said Ron, bringing Scabbers out of his cage to sit on his lap.

"Sh, what's that?" asked Hermione, listening intently.

They all stopped talking, and Harry heard what she must be referring to after a minute. It was a soft whistling noise, coming from the confines of his trunk. Harry pulled out the sneakoscope, and saw it was lighting up and spinning again, emitting the same whistling noise it had the night before.

"It did that last night, too," he told them. Ron leaned forward, and the whistling seemed to get louder.

"Better put it away, Harry, or it might wake him up," said Hermione, casting a glance at Watson. Harry did as she recommended, wrapping it in a second pair of socks on top of the first, this time. They laughed and joked a little about how Ron seemed to have set it off, and Ron defiantly argued that he wasn't being untrustworthy then at all, his ears turning red. But the other two seemed to still want to talk about Sherlock Holmes.

"Do you think they'll catch him soon?" asked Hermione anxiously.

"Dunno. Doesn't seem like they're getting any closer, does it?" said Ron. "And they have almost all the Azkaban guards looking and everything."

"Who are these Azkaban guards?" said Harry. Having not grown up in the Wizarding World, there were still plenty of things about it that he knew nothing of.

Just then, before either of the other two could respond, the train noticeably slowed down, and then bumped to a sudden stop.

"What's going on?" asked Hermione. "We can't be there already."

It was dark outside the train, and was becoming dark up and down it too as the lights flickered off. When their compartment's lights snapped into darkness, they were some of the last to do so.

"What's happening?" said Ron's dark outline. It was becoming cold inside the train, even though it was only September first, the cold spreading down it like the darkness had.

Scared voices were coming from the other compartments. Crookshanks, Hermione's new cat, hissed and broke out of his basket—Ron yelped and tried to find Scabbers to pick him up. Harry looked towards the corner, wondering if they should wake up Dr. Watson, but it was then that he saw a short figure rising there. Flames suddenly appeared, held by a hand that illuminated a round and tired face and the rest of the compartment. "Quiet," said Dr. Watson over the flames.

They did as they were told, and stopped moving and talking so they wouldn't make any noise. A strange sound was coming from outside in the hallway, the door was sliding open, and a dark, towering, hovering…_thing_ was gliding forward, reaching out a dead-looking, rotted, scabbed hand from under a tattered, rippling cloak—

Dr. Watson raised a wand in his other hand and shot something silver out of the end at the figure, just as a terrified, begging scream filled Harry's ears and mind.

"Harry!"

Someone was slapping him awake, and Harry opened his eyes and pushed himself up slowly. There was cold sweat covering his forehead, and he was still shaking from what had happened. The train was now moving again, and all the lights were back on, the temperature returned to normal. In fact, Dr. Watson had even taken off his cloak and was standing in the back in his old sweater, breaking up a gigantic slab of chocolate he apparently had just happened to have around. He offered a large piece to Harry, who took it, though thinking this really wasn't the time.

Dr. Watson handed out the rest of the chocolate to the others and kept a bit for himself. "Are you all right, Harry?" he asked.

Harry nodded, though not quite sure if he was.

Dr. Watson crossed the compartment and stepped outside. "Excuse me, I'm going to have a quick word with the driver," he said, closing the door softly behind him. Harry noticed that he walked with a slight limp as he disappeared down the corridor.

"What happened?" asked Harry, still holding but not eating his chocolate.

"We…we thought you were having a fit or something," said Ron, looking at him worriedly. "Then you yelled a bit, and sort of passed out. Professor Watson, he's our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, he sent this silver thing at him, and it sort of chased it away."

"But what was that creature?" asked Harry. "And who was screaming?"

"Screaming?" asked Hermione, looking at him with a scared expression on her face. "No one screamed, Harry. It was a Dementor, they're the Azkaban guards. Professor Watson said something about them searching for Sherlock Holmes."

Before long, Watson was back, telling them to eat the chocolate he'd given them, something none of them had yet done. To Harry's surprise, it helped a great deal, warming him up and calming his nerves. Watson sat quietly in his seat for the rest of the journey, and before long after that, they had arrived at Hogwarts and were filing into the Great Hall for the start of term feast.

Dumbledore stood up to make his opening remarks. Aside from the normal notices, he also commented on the Dementors' search of the train. Warning them to stay away from the Dementors while at school, who he explained would be guarding it on orders from the Ministry of Magic, he told them that Dementors would not be fooled by disguises or spells, and that they wouldn't forgive or show mercy if challenged, either.

"On a happier note," said Dumbledore brightly, as the hall had filled with troubled whispers, "I'd like to recognize two new additions to our teaching staff this year. First, Professor John Watson, who will be taking Defense Against the Dark Arts this year…." He paused to allow them to clap, but the clapping that followed was not very long or very enthusiastic. Harry, Ron, and Hermione, however, clapped and cheered loudly for him, who looked very out of place in his battered sweater next to the other teachers.

"Look at Anderson!" hissed Ron, pointing up at the other end of the staff table. Professor Anderson, Harry's least favorite teacher by far (he taught potions), was glaring down the table at Watson, deep loathing clearly etched in every part of his distasteful face. Harry was so interested in why Anderson seemed to hate Watson so much that he nearly missed what Dumbledore said next.

"…and our own Rubeus Hagrid, who is taking over the post of Care of Magical Creatures teacher, as Professor Kettleburn has retired to spend more time with his remaining limbs."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione joined in this slightly more sincere applause with just as much, if not more gusto. They knew that it would mean the world to Hagrid to be a teacher.

One sumptuous feast later, the three of them ascended the staircases leading to the Gryffindor common room, and told the painting of Mrs. Hudson, an elderly witch in purple robes who guarded the Gryffindor common room, the new password that they had got from Percy (Reichenbach). They parted to go to their separate dormitories, and Harry went up to the third year boys' dormitory with Ron. He looked around contentedly, glad to finally be home.


	5. Tea Leaves and Talons

Chapter Five: Tea Leaves and Talons

"How much further can it be?" panted Ron as they ascended to the top of yet another flight of stairs. It was their first day back and Harry, Ron, and Hermione were eager to start their new lessons—that is, if they could find them. They were on their way to Divination, and glad they had left breakfast early. The classroom was in the North Tower, and none of them had ever been there before.

"Should we head that way, or do you think…," trailed off Hermione uncertainly, letting the finger she had raised drop. Harry, however, wasn't listening. He had stopped to watch the large painting that hung on the stretch of wall on this landing. He always enjoyed watching the paintings of Hogwarts and their inhabitants. This one showed nothing but a stretch of lush green grass that was rippling slightly as if there was a light breeze. One moment later, however, and a squat little pony with a gray coat and spots had walked lazily into the scene, eating the grass unconcernedly. Soon a short knight in silver armor with grass stains at the knees walked in behind his steed.

"Back, you scallywags!" he shouted at the trio, who obligingly stepped back slightly in surprise. "Back, lowly squires! Come to mock me at my fall?" He struggled to pull out his sword, and then brandished it threateningly at them. However, the sword was a bit too long or maybe too heavy for him, and he toppled over again. Still behaving ferociously, he attempted to wrench the sword out from the ground where it had sunk.

Seeing that the knight was preoccupied, Harry took his chance. "Look, we need to find the North Tower, but—"

"A quest!" exclaimed the knight in excitement, abandoning his sword and his anger. "Come with me, and we shall complete our errand, or else perish bravely in the chase!" He attempted to mount his pony, which offered no help whatsoever, but merely slid off a few times with a clanking of armor. "On foot then! Onward, good sirs and gentle lady!"

With that, he ran out of the side of his painting, and a few moments they saw him reappear in a portrait of a woman with a parasol a flight of stairs above them. Harry, Ron and Hermione started up the stairs, running to keep up with him.

Occasionally the knight would shout things at them such as "Fear not! Our quarry nears closer!" and they would see him bounding ungracefully past the other occupants of Hogwarts's paintings. After a few minutes, they found themselves on a landing where the stairs ended with the rest of the class waiting there.

The knight waved from a painting beside them, leaning over a girl in pink with a plum brandy. "If ever you have need of a fearless warrior and just character, call upon Sir Cadogan!" he yelled at them, before disappearing to return to his own frame.

"Yeah, we'll call you," said Ron. "if we ever need someone mental."

They waited with their classmates for a few minutes, and then a step ladder lowered itself down from the ceiling. Casting each other curious looks, they began to ascend, one by one. When it was Harry's turn, he felt the difference in the air as his head emerged into the classroom. It didn't look like a classroom, though, more like someone's attic, or a museum, or a Chinese emporium. He waited for Ron and Hermione to come up, and then they sat down together at a small, circular table. There were teapots everywhere, ceramics that looked very old. A young woman with a black ponytail and silk robes buttoned up to her neck was sitting at the table at the front, pouring water over a teapot and letting it run into a bowl.

"Welcome to Divination," she said in a soft, accented voice. "I am Professor Yao, and will be instructing you in your studies this year. Divination is an art, and if you do not have the talent, I am afraid that there will be very little that I can teach you."

Harry looked around at his fellow classmates. Most of them looked uncomfortable, perhaps because of the strange setting of the classroom, perhaps because of Professor Yao, whose placid, ethereal tones were slightly creepy.

"We will be starting our studies with tea leaves," she said, gesturing unnecessarily to the dozens of Chinese teapots that were sitting in different places in the rooms. "First, I will give you a demonstration of correct care of the teapot, because that certainly is something you will need to know before you are able to do much with one."

And she did just that. Sitting in her seat up front, she began to explain how the traditional Chinese teapots they would be using needed to be used to make tea regularly, or else they would dry out and could crack. She showed them how to make tea using the teapots that had been placed on all the tables near them, and she effectively bored Harry into a half-waking, half-dozing state in which he couldn't absorb a thing she said about the teapots.

Thirty minutes later, Professor Yao allowed them to attempt to make tea in the groups they were seated in, and then predict each other's fortunes using the dregs of the tea leaves that remained at the bottom of their cup. She had swooped down on Neville at this point, anticipating him dropping Seamus's cup before he actually did, and receiving awed looks from Lavender and Parvati. Harry merely glanced up sleepily and drained the last gulp of tea from his cup. He thought he may have swallowed a few leaves, and surreptitiously put his cup back down, hoping that wouldn't matter.

Hermione was flipping through her copy of _Unfogging the Future_ and Harry and Ron looked over her shoulder to get the right page number when she had reached it. They all passed their cups to each other clockwise so they could look at the shapes the tea leaves had created.

"Right," said Ron, glancing back and forth between Harry's cup and the book. "Um, well, you've got a little X thing here…no, maybe that's a cross…yeah, so that means "trials and suffering." Sorry about that, mate. And then, that…maybe that's an animal of some sort? Maybe a hippo…or a bird…."

Harry snorted. There was quite a difference between a hippo and a bird. Ron looked sheepish, and Harry glanced down into his cup. A load of soggy greenish brown stuff. Seriously, what else was he supposed to take away from that?

"And that there, that looks a bit like the picture of the sun they have in here," continued Ron. "so that would mean happiness. You're gonna suffer, but you're gonna be happy about it," he said uncertainly, looking at Harry.

It was just then that Professor Yao decided to visit their table. She took the cup from Ron, whose ears turned red, and started to inspect it herself. "The water…dangerous travel. A club…that means an attack. Not a very lucky cup, I wager," she said. She turned the cup and her head slightly, and then gave a little gasp, dropping it. Harry reached out to catch it, and brought it up for her to take. She did so, still staring at him with wide eyes.

"What did you see, Professor?" asked Parvati, alerting Harry to the fact that most of the class had stopped what they were doing to watch. The ones who hadn't did now.

"My dear," said Professor Yao, her dark eyes filling with small tears, "The worst omen of all…the most feared…it lingers in your cup…the _hawk_."

Most of the class gasped too, and started looking at Harry with scared eyes. Harry's stomach did a lurch, and he thought back to the book at Flourish and Blotts, and the bird he had seen before he Knight Bus came to get him. But what did that mean? Hermione didn't seem to have had a reaction, nor Dean or Lavender. It was the ones who came from Wizarding families who were looking horror-struck.

"What…?" asked Harry.

"Death," said Professor Yao simply and sadly. "You are in grave danger, my dear. Best to be as careful as you can, now that the tea leaves have spoken…."

Harry felt a little nervous, but mostly because of how all his classmates were looking at him closely and worriedly. Personally, though, he thought Professor Yao a little strange, shut up in her classroom at the top of the North Tower with all the teapots she was in love with. She seemed a bit fixated on tea to him, and he wondered how seriously he ought to take her. Especially when a moment later she had dismissed the class and disappeared behind a curtain, not stopping to say anything to the student she had just told that they were going to die. Certainly not your typical concerned teacher.

Once they had descended the staircase and headed off to lunch, Harry felt his head clear in the air of the rest of the castle, which felt much cooler after the stuffy classroom of Professor Yao. They headed after lunch, where Ron asked Harry nervously whether or not he'd seen a hawk around lately.

"Yeah, I did that night I ran away from the Dursleys," said Harry unconcernedly, ignoring the vegetables and cutting himself a generous slice of treacle tart.

Ron dropped his fork onto his plate and swallowed the huge mouthful of pasta he'd just taken painfully quickly. "Harry, Harry that's bad!"

"Oh, come on Ron," said Hermione, looking scornful. "There are lots of hawks, and plenty of people who see them. Are you going to tell me that everyone who goes birdwatching is doomed to die prematurely?"

"Hermione, you don't understand," said Ron, aghast. "The hawk is not a good sign, any wizard with any sense knows—"

"—to immediately act terrified?" said Hermione, sounding impatient. "That's just ridiculous. Harry's not scared, are you, Harry?"

Harry shrugged, eating his treacle tart. "Not really. I mean, I've had plenty of near death experiences before, why would they stop now? Doesn't make much difference, does it?"

Hermione did not seem to think this was a pleasing answer, but she didn't seem angry at him. She just pulled out an Arithmancy book and began to read.

Ron looked at Harry, with eyes wide. "Can you believe her?" he mouthed. Frankly, yes, Harry could.

Later they were walking down to Hagrid's hut, and their first ever Care of Magical Creatures lesson. They all knew how excited Hagrid would be able getting to be a teacher, and were hoping that his first lesson would be a success. Harry saw in front of them the backs of three people he recognized, and had a moment of worry. They must be having Care of Magical Creatures with the Slytherins, and he wouldn't put it past Donovan Malfoy and his cronies Crabbe and Goyle to do their best of ruin Hagrid's lesson.

"Right you lot, let's get started!" said Hagrid, clapping his enormous hands together once the whole class had arrived. "Got a real treat today, follow me." He led them to a paddock away from his hut and outside the Forbidden Forest. Inside it were the strangest creatures Harry had ever seen. They were half eagle and half horse, it appeared. They had the feathers and wings of huge birds of prey, with large orange eyes and smooth, sharp beaks, but then the powerful, hairy rear legs and muscles of horses, finishing in tails like those of horses.

"Hippogriffs!" called Hagrid happily. "Aren't they beautiful? Now, I want all of you to open your books ter—"

"And how do we do that?" interrupted Malfoy.

"Wha?" asked Hagrid.

"How do we open our books?" Malfoy drawled again.

"Haven't…hasn't anyone been able ter open their book?" asked Hagrid, looking disappointed.

The rest of the class began to shake their heads, but Harry raised his hand into the air.

"Great, Harry, well done!" Hagrid said, brightening. "Care ter tell the class 'ow it's done?"

"You, um, you just sort of stroke the spine," said Harry, taking the belt off his own book and stroking its spine before it could get worked up. The book shuddered like it had back on Privet Drive, and opened to somewhere near the middle.

"Tha's right, Harry," said Hagrid. "Well done, an' ten points ta Gryffindor. Now, I want each of you to open your book, stroking the spine, to page fifty-six, where yer see the information on Hippogriffs. Now, the firs' thing ter know about Hippogriffs is that they're very proud creatures. Don't never want to insult them, 'cause those talons hurt. Hippogriffs are very smart, but you gotta approach 'em right. Now, who'd like ter go firs'?"

The whole class stared at Hagrid as if he were crazy. Harry saw that Ron and Hermione were looking at Hagrid with furrowed brows. He wanted to make sure Hagrid's lesson was a success though, so he did what he knew he needed to for his friend.

"I'll do it," he said. The rest of the class erupted in whispers. He was sure he heard Malfoy say "show off" and a few people mention tea leaves, but he didn't care. Hagrid was looking at him with relief and pride. "Good man, Harry!" he boomed. "Let's see if Buckbeak takes ter you."  
Hagrid entered the paddock and motioned for Harry to go in after him. Feeling anxious and wondering just what he had gotten himself into, Harry followed, but stayed right next to the fence once inside.  
Using a dead ferret he had gotten from a pile before entering, Hagrid coaxed a light gray colored Hippogriff towards Harry. "Now, you need to bow, nice an' low, and then see if he bows back. If he does, you can go and pet him. If not, back away quickly, Harry. An' whatever you do, don' blink, Hippogriffs don't trust you if you blink too ofen."  
With more than a little trepidation, Harry took a step or two forward, and bowed to Buckbeak, keeping his eyes trained on the huge bird's face. It looked like he had been unsuccessful; the Hippogriff appeared to be glaring at him—but then Buckbeak bent his own knees slightly, and sunk his magnificent head into a bow.

"Excellent, Harry!" cheered Hagrid along with the rest of the class, save Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle. "Now, why don't you ride him!" It wasn't a question.

"What? NO, Hagrid, put me back down!" said Harry frantically, for Hagrid and picked him up by the armpits and was lifting him onto Buckbeak's back. "Hagrid, I didn't sign up to ride him, put me down!" But his cries were falling on deaf ears. Hagrid set him down several feet off the ground on top of Buckbeak and yelled over him not to pull out any of his feathers before smacking Buckbeak on the rump.  
Harry yelled, and they were flying.

Buckbeak took off above the paddock, and soared over the class that looked small in their robes of black from above, taking him over Hagrid's hut and towards the spires of the castle. Harry wasn't paying much attention to the landscape, however, he was working hard to stay on top of Buckbeak, wondering how quickly he'd be able to get his wand out to perform a levitation charm if he fell off. Once he started to get in a rhythm and get used to the motion of the animal's hindquarters and wings moving beneath him, Harry realized he quite enjoyed soaring around the castle, more than a hundred feet off the ground in areas he had never been allowed to go on his broomstick. He thought he caught a glimpse of Professor McGonagall teaching her Transfiguration class through one of the windows. Then Buckbeak was taking him away from the castle and above the glittering lake. They were soaring above it, Buckbeak losing speed to let his talons brush the surface, and Harry saw his reflection in the small waves they were speeding past. He took his arms off the Hippogriffs neck and spread them out, feeling the wind, and letting out a wild whoop of pleasure—then Buckbeak jerked upward again and Harry said "Whoa!" into his neck and he was forced forward again. He didn't try anything like that again, but kept his arms firmly around the Hippogriff, and they were soon spiraling around the paddock. Harry heard a whistle that must have been from Hagrid, and with a rough bump they were back on the ground.

Hagrid lifted Harry off of Buckbeak and set him down gently, looking down at him happily.

"Now!" said Hagrid to the class. "We'll out you in groups with a Hippogriff each, and you can practice saying hello. No riding though, and don't try to touch anything but the head."

A few minutes later the rest of the class had each been given a Hippogriff, and Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle had taken over Buckbeak. Harry watched Ron and Hermione petting a chestnut-colored one happily for a minute before he heard Donovan Malfoy's drawling voice getting louder from where he was touching Buckbeak.  
"…you great, big, ugly, brute—"  
And then Malfoy was screaming and Buckbeak had stood up on his hind legs, swiping at Malfoy with his talons.

"BUCKBEAK!" Yelled Hagrid, standing in front of Malfoy and holding up his arms. Hagrid shielded Malfoy and yelled at Buckbeak until he had stopped rearing, then tossed him a ferret to keep him distracted. Malfoy, however, was rolling on the ground in apparent agony, his left sleeve bloody and torn.

"Class dismissed!" called Hagrid, picking up Malfoy and walking up towards the castle with huge strides. Crabbe and Goyle followed close behind, and soon many of the Slytherins had followed suit. Malfoy's calls of "bloody chicken" faded after a few moments as Hagrid carried him further away.

"Do you think he'll be alright?" asked Hermione, though she didn't sound very concerned for his health.

"Professor Hooper can fix up anything, he'll be back to normal in no time, unfortunately," said Harry bitterly. "I'm more worried about Hagrid. That's not a good thing to happen in his first lesson, is it?" he said.

The rest of the class had gathered their bags and was talking among themselves either excitedly or in frightened voices as they left. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were the only ones left standing in the paddock.

"No, it's not," said Ron. "but they can't blame Hagrid. I mean, he told us never to insult a Hippogriff, and then what does Malfoy go and do? Stupid git."

Harry agreed, but still felt uneasy. He jumped about a foot in the air when something large, cold and smooth brushed at the side of his face. It was Buckbeak's beak, which he was trying to rub against Harry. Harry smoothed back the feathers of his neck, looking up at the castle.


	6. The Boggart in the Wardrobe

**A/N: I hope you guys like this one…I got pretty excited when I came up with the idea for how it would go. I know the story may be fairly similar to the book at this point, but it'll start to diverge more later on. My problem is that I like what J. K. Rowling has done so much that I have trouble changing it! **** My sincere thanks to you if you're still reading.**

Chapter Six: The Boggart in the Wardrobe

It was double potions with the Slytherins and Anderson later that week when the Gryffindors' misfortune doubled with the appearance of Donovan Malfoy. His arm was in a sling, but he appeared no less the worse from his encounter with Buckbeak, something Harry couldn't help but regret, even though he knew it would have resulted in a lot more trouble for Hagrid.

"Today we will be making a shrinking solution," drawled Anderson from the front of the class. Ron cast Harry an annoyed look; Malfoy was late, and they both knew that Anderson wouldn't have just carried on with his lesson if they had been before putting them in detention. "Instructions are on the blackboard."

Harry pulled out all his ingredients and set up his cauldron, preparing to work. Malfoy, however, had started to make a fuss from where he was sitting. "Professor, professor, I just don't think that I can work today. I really want to, you know just how much I love your classes, but with this arm, I just can't cut my ingredients…." Harry rolled his eyes. He was used to Malfoy kissing up to Anderson, but he still turned his chair to face Ron and Hermione instead of the front of the class when Anderson sat down next to Malfoy to help him cut each of his ingredients like he was a five-year-old, not wanting the obvious show of favoritism to put him off.

The rest of the lesson proceeded much like any other double potions lesson: miserably. Anderson catered to Malfoy's every need, but remembered to get up periodically to bully Neville and insult the color of Harry's solution. Now that he came to think of it, Harry thought that they seemed to have double potions much more frequently than any other double period.

They were exiting the dungeon classroom when Malfoy sauntered between Harry and Hermione, leading Crabbe and Goyle nearby. "So, Potter," he snarled. "Haven't you heard about all the sightings?"

"What are you on, about?" said Ron testily. "Don't you have somewhere else to be?"

Malfoy looked at Harry, then back at Ron, and back at Harry, who was feeling very disinterested and wishing Malfoy would leave so they could get to lunch. "Don't tell me…you don't _know_? They've seen Sherlock Holmes in a few places now, once in a Buddhist monastery, once in Hamburg…surprised you haven't done a runner yet yourself, Potter, gone looking for him now he's back in Europe."

"Yeah, that's right, Malfoy," said Harry sarcastically. "You know me, always want to be trying to catch someone. I was planning to go after Holmes this weekend, once classes are over."

Malfoy folded his good arm over the sling as he walked backward in front of them. "Come on, Potter, don't act like it doesn't matter to you…if it were me, I wouldn't just be sitting in school, I'd be halfway to Germany by now. I'd want _revenge._"

"Revenge?" scoffed Ron. "Go away, Malfoy."

Malfoy turned his head from Ron to Harry, then back to Ron and back to Harry again. Then he let out a maliciously gleeful laugh. "Don't tell me you don't _know! _By God, father told me ages ago, I thought everyone knew—"

"Malfoy, we're not interested. Go away," said Harry, as they rounded a corner and started towards the stairs leading to the Entrance Hall.

"Don't you _know_ how it came out? Don't you know what they think he did? _Who _he did it to?"

Harry didn't answer, he just tilted his head to one side, raised his eyebrows and gave him a I-don't-think-what-you-have-to-say-is-worth-the-air-it-takes look.

Malfoy laughed again, turned, beckoned to Crabbe and Goyle, and walked away, calling out "Look it up, freaks!"

Ron looked at Harry. "What a loser. He's just trying to act like he knows something the rest of us don't." Harry personally agreed, and turned to Hermione to see if she had anything to say. But Hermione wasn't there. Harry stopped, and looked back at Ron. "Where…what happened to Hermione? She was right here, wasn't she?"

"I thought she was walking with us the whole time," said Ron, looking just as alarmed as Harry. They both turned around, and Harry walked down a few of the steps, wondering where she had got to. Then Hermione rounded the corner they had come around a few moments before, clutching the bag at her side and almost running.

"Hermione, where'd you go?" asked Harry. "Why didn't you say something?"

"Oh, I—I just had to go back for something," she patted her bag, and started to walk up the stairs, though she was still panting.

"You were with us the whole time though! Weren't you? We thought you were right behind us," said Ron, starting to sound a little uncertain.

"Hmm? Oh, yes, of course I was. I just had to go back, that's all. Aren't we going to lunch?"

Harry nodded, still regarding her. Once she had turned and started walking, he and Ron exchanged a look before following.

The lesson after lunch was their first ever Defense Against the Dark Arts class with Professor Watson. They arrived at the classroom a few minutes early, but there was no line outside the door; the rest of their classmates had already filed in and taken seats. Everyone was sitting much as they had last year with Professor Lockhart, which meant that Harry, Ron, and Hermione would be in the back. Harry had started that habit in an attempt to avoid Lockhart, but it had never really worked very well.

The classroom didn't have very many personal touches from Professor Watson. All the autographed pictures of beaming Lockharts had mercifully been taken down, and in their place there were a few diagrams of what looked like dark creatures, and map of Britain in one corner. There was a desk with a gramophone sitting on its surface at the front of the room. A black coat with leather at the elbows was draped over the wooden chair behind it, but there was no sign of Professor Watson himself.

It seemed a little strange to Harry that he wouldn't be there early for his first lesson with the third years, but the rest of his classmates seemed unconcerned and had sat down and started chatting with each other. Harry, Ron, and Hermione put their things down at the desks in the back and sat down, pulling out their books.

A few minutes later Professor Watson arrived. His face looked slightly fuller, and he looked a little better than he had on the train, but there were still deep bags under his eyes and his robes were patched and frayed. He smiled at the class from the door.

"I've just been in the staff room," he said. "For our first lesson, I thought we'd do something practical, I've heard that this class hasn't had much experience in tackling dark creatures, and I don't see why we shouldn't start now. So, you can all put your books away, and when you've done that, if you'd follow me…."

The class looked at one another, a little surprised, but they did as Professor Watson asked and he was soon holding the door open for them as they filed past. He smiled at Harry, Ron and Hermione when they passed him, but Harry noticed that the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. It wasn't menacing, though. They were the last ones out, and when Professor Watson closed the door behind them with a soft _click_, Harry cast a glance back at him, and saw that his young face looked sad under prematurely graying fair hair.

Watson marched to the front of the line to lead the class onward. Harry saw that he still was walking with a slight limp, but it was very slight, and easy to miss. As he watched him walk ahead of them around the other Gryffindors, Harry thought he noticed that sometimes he would take several steps without limping, but then it would come back again. Harry wondered about this new professor, he seemed like a very complicated person, and very different from any of the other people he had met in the Wizarding World.

They walked through a few corridors before encountering Peeves, who was busy cramming gum up the keyhole to the Hospital Wing while singing a rude tune. As they approached, Peeves noticed Watson, and suddenly burst into a new song. "Raving, wacky Watson, raving wacky Watson!" he crowed.

Peeves was always unruly and a royal pain, but he tended to reserve a small measure of restraint for the teachers. The only person Harry had ever heard him sing about like that was himself, when Peeves had composed his own rhyme about him last year. The class looked at Watson, ready to see how he would take this first test to his authority as a new teacher.

"Peeves, you should take that gum out of the keyhole," he said calmly. "Otherwise Professor Hooper is going to be very distressed." Professor Hooper was the nurse, who, aside from being very helpful with the many accidents and injuries of all kinds that were ubiquitous at Hogwarts, also taught Healing to the sixth and seventh years who were looking into it as a career.

To no one's surprise, Peeves didn't heed him, just sang shrilly, bobbing up and down in the air. Watson sighed, and pulled out his wand. "This is a useful little spell," he said over his shoulder to the class. He pointed his wand at the keyhole full of bright pink gum, and said "_Waddiwassi!"_ The gum shot out of the keyhole like a bullet, and up Peeve's left nostril. Cursing fluently, but in a slightly muffled voice, Peeves zoomed away and out of site. "Stuffed up in pink," said Watson to himself quietly.

"Super cool, sir!" said Dean, looking at Professor Watson, impressed.

"Thank you," Watson said. "And your name is…?"

"Dean Thomas."

"Pleased to meet you, Dean. Shall we go on?"

His pupils looking at him with increased respect, they followed Professor Watson the rest of the way to the staff room. When they got there and filed in, Harry saw that the only teacher there was Anderson, who was sitting in a chair and watching them with his arms folded. After everyone was inside, he stood up and strode to the door. "As a fellow teacher, I think I ought to warn you, John, that this class contains Neville Longbottom," said Anderson in a sneering voice. "Don't let him do anything above first-year level, unless Hermione Granger is whispering instructions to him."

"Really?" said Watson, looking at Anderson in mild dislike. He glanced around the room, locked eyes with Neville, who he seemed to somehow recognize, and then looked back at Anderson. "I was hoping that Neville would assist me at the start of this lesson, and I'm sure that he will do so admirably."

"Well, you never were a very good judge of character," said Anderson, and he left the room, shutting the door behind him. The room was as a silent as a morgue. Harry had watched Watson's expression through the whole exchange, and saw that there was hurt across his face at the last comment from Anderson. He soon hid it though, and clapped his hands together, facing the class. He strode through them to stand by a large and old wardrobe on the other side of the room. "So!" he said. "I'm Professor Watson, and I'll be teaching you Defense Against the Dark Arts this year. First, I'd like to learn each of your names, and then we can get right to it! I think you'll enjoy our first lesson."

They all said their names in turn, as Professor Watson stood with his hands behind his back and greeted each of them. He remembered Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Dean, and Neville seemed familiar to him.

Once they were done, he said "You're all probably wondering why I brought you to the staff room," and gestured to the wardrobe by tilting his head. "There's a boggart in there."

Most of Harry's fellow Gryffindors looked terrified, and almost ready to panic.

"No, no, it's quite alright, he shouldn't give us too much trouble if we take him together. First, however, I'd like to go over a few things…who here can tell me what a boggart actually is?"

Harry was nonplussed, but Hermione's well-practiced hand shot into the air next to him. Harry actually thought that he felt the air ripple past his ear; apparently Hermione was eager to impress the new teacher. Watson looked at her and nodded slightly.

"It's a shape-shifter," said Hermione promptly. "It takes the shape of whatever it thinks will frighten the person facing it most."

"Yes. So what does it look like now, when it's in the wardrobe with so many of us here?"

"No one knows," answered Hermione. "We can't know what it would look like when it's alone because there's no way for us to see it without it changing into something we fear."

"Precisely. And how could that help us?" Hermione made as if to speak again, but Watson said quickly "Someone else, maybe?"

No one else said anything, so he started looking from student to student. His tired but inquisitive eyes met Harry's. "Harry? Have you spotted our advantage?"

Harry scratched the back of his head as he answered. "With so many of us here, it won't know what to do, right? So it would have to choose one thing, or maybe try to be more than one thing at once?"

"Quite right, Harry. And that wouldn't be very frightening at all, half a snake and half a mad-axe man. It doesn't pose so much of a threat that way. But the really important thing to remember about a boggart is that while confusing it is very helpful, and that's why you should always have company if you can when you tackle one, what will really finish it off, is _laughter._ Neville, this is where you come in. Now, what do you think is the thing that scares you the most?"

Neville whispered something quietly, as if too embarrassed to let the rest of the classmates hear. Professor Watson leaned in a little and said "Sorry Neville, but I didn't quite catch that," good-naturedly.

"Professor Anderson," said Neville shakily. The rest of the class laughed, and Neville even gave a wobbly smile.

"Okay, so that means that we need to think of a way to make Professor Anderson appear amusing when he steps out of the wardrobe to face you," said Professor Watson. Neville looked alarmed that Watson would make him take on the boggart first and alone. "Don't worry," said Watson quickly. "I have an idea. Now, am I the only one, or does Professor Anderson ever make you think of a certain animal?"

There was scattered laughter from the rest of the class again. Professor Watson was obviously doing well so far.

"I don't know about you, but personally, I think he looks a little like a white ferret," whispered Watson loudly to the class, leaning forward as if sharing a secret. Then he leaned back again, smiling. The class was laughing appreciatively, and now that Harry thought about it, he sort of had a point.

"So, when I open the wardrobe, Neville, I want you to concentrate very hard on Professor Anderson becoming a ferret, and then point your wand at him and say '_Riddikulus!'_ Do you think you can do that?"

Neville nodded, still biting back a laugh, probably at the idea of Professor Anderson as a ferret.

"Excellent. Before I open the wardrobe, I'd like each of you to take a moment to think about what frightens you the most, picture it in your mind, and then think of a way that you could make it appear amusing. I'll give you a moment now."

Harry looked at the floor, then closed his eyes to help himself concentrate. Voldemort, obviously. But how could he make Voldemort appear amusing? Give him a clown nose? That would probably just be even more terrifying. And what would he even look like in the first place? Harry had met him on two occasions, once he had been grafted onto the back of Professor Quirrell's head, and once he had been a projection of his sixteen-year-old self….

But an image very different from the teen Voldemort had now occurred to Harry. A scabbed, rotted hand…that night on the train may have been even more frightening than any brush with Voldemort he had had so far. The dementor…was that what frightened him most?

"Ready now?" asked Professor Watson from the front of the room. Harry wasn't ready, the dementor had just occurred to him and he had no idea how to make it seem amusing, but everyone else was nodding and looking at Professor Watson or the wardrobe expectantly. He didn't want to call attention to himself to ask for more time.

"Right," said Watson, pulling out his wand. "Everyone else stand back, lets give Neville lots of room, and then form a line behind him. I'd like to let everyone get a chance to face the boggart for practice before we finish him off, so everyone try not to laugh _too_ hard at Professor Anderson," he continued, not hiding the smirk that came over his face at that last comment. "One, two, _three._" He flicked his wand slightly, and the knob of the wardrobe door snapped to the side.

A hand was forced between the door and the wooden frame, and Professor Anderson pushed open the door. He stepped out, and glared at Neville, walking towards him threateningly. As he opened his mouth to speak out loud, Neville pointed his wand and said, not without a nervous edge to his voice, "_Riddikulus!"_

_Crack! _Professor Anderson spun around and disappeared, leaving a white ferret on the floor where he had been standing. The class collectively let out a shout of laughter—Harry and Ron were particularly enjoying the sight of their potions teacher scuttling around the floor as a ferret—and Professor Watson made shushing noises and gestured for them to calm down, while hunched over with silent laughter himself. Neville looked back at them grinning, and in his lapse his wand jerked upward, taking the ferret with it. The boggart-ferret-Anderson was bounced several feet in the air, squealing madly. Neville laughed in pleasure and moved his wand again experimentally, discovering with glee that he could bounce a ferret form of Professor Anderson around the staff room. The class was in hysterics.

"Alright, Neville, that's quite enough, Parvati, forward!" called Professor Watson between gasps.

Neville took his wand away from the ferret and moved to the back of the room as Parvati stepped forward. _Crack!_ The ferret transformed into a bloodstained, bandaged mummy. Where Parvati had encountered a mummy so that it became her greatest fear, Harry didn't know.

"_Riddikulus!" _shouted Parvati, and the mummy tripped over its bandages, and struggled on the floor to untangle itself.

"Excellent! Dean, you next!" said Professor Watson excitedly.

_Crack!_ The mummy became a severed hand, that inched along the floor towards Dean. "_Riddikulus!_" he said, and the hand was caught in a mousetrap.

_Crack! _The hand changed into a single eyeball. _Crack!_ It was a rearing snake.

"It's getting confused!" said Watson. "Ron, have a go!"

Ron stepped forward, his face set. _Crack!_ The boggart changed into a huge spider, towering over all of them. Lavender screamed.

"_Riddikulus!_" squeaked Ron, and each of the spider's legs began to struggle to keep its balance; they were all now laced up inside roller skates.

Harry stepped forward, ready to take his turn, but doubt flickered across his mind. What could he do? _Crack!_ The boggart changed again, and swooping down was a huge, dark figure—

Professor Watson was now there, he had jumped between Harry and the dementor, and there was yet another _Crack!_ as it changed yet again—Harry couldn't see what it was now, Watson was in the way—it was laying on the floor, it looked the length of a person, there was something blue, and dark red blood was seeping onto the floor—

"_Riddikulus!_" shouted Professor Watson, louder than any of them had, and the boggart made more cracking sounds, but seemed to be confused again. It was flickering between several things, trying to be a spider, an eyeball, mummy, and a snake all at once. Harry thought he saw something pale surrounded by black in there, but maybe it was the ferret again…?

"Neville, finish him off!" yelled Professor Watson. Neville rushed forward, and Professor Anderson was back. "_Riddikulus!"_ said Neville firmly, and the white ferret was back. Neville let out a loud _"HA!"_ of laughter, and the ferret exploded in a small cloud of what looked like confetti—none of it fell to the floor. The boggart was gone.

A few members of the class broke into applause. Professor Watson was tugging down on his threadbare robes to right them again, and smiling at them. "Well, I guess that will be all for today—" several people said "Aw" as if upset, "—yes, well…I'm glad you all enjoyed that, I told you the boggart wouldn't be much trouble. Now, five points to Gryffindor for everyone who tackled that boggart, that'll be ten for Neville, since he did it twice, and then five each for Hermione and Harry, for answering my questions at the beginning of class.

"And for homework—" A few people groaned, and he smiled apologetically, "—yes, for homework, I'd like five inches of parchment on boggarts and how you defeat them, to be handed in at our next lesson. Shouldn't be difficult, since we just did it together here. You can all go back to the classroom if you need to collect any of your things, but I see several of you brought them here. I'll be seeing you all soon, then. Thank you for a very enjoyable class today. And well done, everyone!"

As Harry filed out of the room with everyone else and heard them talk excitedly to each other about the boggart, and mostly about Professor Anderson, "the amazing, bouncing ferret", he couldn't help but feel a little regretful that he hadn't had his own turn with the boggart. And why had Watson stopped him from? Hadn't he said he wanted everyone to get a chance, for practice? Then why had he stopped them early?

"What was that that it changed into for Watson?" asked Ron. "I couldn't see, everyone was in the way."

"Me neither," said Hermione.

"I don't know," said Harry. I could only really see a bit of it. I think there was some blood…," he looked back at the floor, but if it had been there, it had vanished with the boggart.

"Weird, huh?" asked Ron. "Great class, though. I'm going to need to fix that in my memory forever…Anderson, getting bounced around the staffroom as a ferret by Neville…just makes life perfect, doesn't it?"

Harry and Hermione grinned.


	7. Mrs Hudson's Flight

Chapter Seven: Mrs. Hudson's Flight

In almost no time at all, Defense Against the Dark Arts had become most people's favorite class. Professor Watson was patient and kind to the students, and his classes were always interesting. Even Fred and George had given him their stamp of approval, which was rare for a teacher. Apparently he knew Professor Hooper, too, and Harry had heard that he sometimes stopped by her classes for the upper grades or helped her in the Hospital Wing. After boggarts they studied many other dark creatures and how to go about fighting them, including kappas, hinkypunks, and redcaps. The only people who had anything bad to say about Professor Watson were Donovan Malfoy and his band of Slytherins. Malfoy had started criticizing Watson's many jumpers whenever they passed in the halls, but no one else cared.

Harry wished he was enjoying his other classes as much as Professor Watson's. Anderson was particular vile these days, clearly not amused by the story of how a boggart had taken his shape, been turned into a ferret, and then been bounced around the staffroom by Neville Longbottom. It didn't help that the story had reached everyone in the castle within hours, and that everyone who had ever been put down by Anderson, which was almost everyone in Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, or Hufflepuff, reveled in the story, and even sometimes acted it out. Harry was also starting to dread the hours he spent on the opposite end of the castle from the dungeons, high in Professor Yao's steamy room in the North Tower. There seemed to be no end in her enthusiasm for deciphering tea leaves, and she brewed pot after pot for them as Harry struggled to stay awake. Occasionally Professor Yao would bemoan his impending death for the whole class to hear, and Harry was having trouble taking her seriously now that he had thought about her prediction in the brightly lit and tea fume-free areas outside her classroom. No one really liked Care of Magical Creatures much. Malfoy was soon cast-free, his arm in perfect condition, and although Hagrid didn't seem to have been punished in any way for the accident, he seemed to have lost his nerve. The creatures they delt with in Professor Watson's class were far more interesting, than, say, flobberworms, whose slimy throats they had spent several classes poking lettuce down.

Fortunately for Harry, the Quidditch season soon began. The return of his favorite sport and team practices was enough to make up for his unsatisfactory classes. The team captain, Oliver Wood, had become possessed with a manic desire to win the Quidditch Cup, and he spent most of their first practice lecturing the team about it. Rather than bore them, as his Quidditch talks sometimes did, especially when given in the early hours of the morning, this session filled the entire team with a fervent desire to put their name on the cup that year. Due to unlucky circumstances, the first of which Harry couldn't help but feel the slightest twinge of guilt about, they had been unable to compete in the final the past two years, and Harry felt that it was his personal duty to fix that for Wood's last year at Hogwarts.

When Harry arrived back in the common room that evening, a knot of people had collected around the notice board. "What's up?" he asked Ron and Hermione, gesturing to the small crowd.

"Hogsmeade weekend. On Halloween," said Ron.

"Smashing," said Fred, who had just clambered through the portrait hole behind Harry with George. "I need to stock up on a few items from Zonko's."

Harry felt the balloon of happiness in his stomach that had filled at Quidditch practice deflate slightly.

"Don't worry, Harry," said Hermione. "They're sure to catch Holmes soon, they've already sighted him a few times. You'll probably be able to go next time."

"Maybe you could even go this time, mate," said Ron. "Ask McGonagall. Hogsmeade'll be full of people, Holmes wouldn't be able to try anything, even if he is in Britain."

"_Ron,_" said Hermione disapprovingly. "Harry can't leave Hogwarts like that—"

"Yeah, I'll ask McGonagall," said Harry, making his decision.

"_Harry,_" said Hermione in consternation, but right then Crookshanks leapt onto her lap, holding a dead spider in his mouth.

"Did you catch that all by yourself, clever Crookshanks?" said Hermione softly, rubbing his fur. She looked back up from her brief distraction to argue with Harry, but Ron cut across her.

"You keep that thing right there, Scabbers is sleeping in my bag," he said.

Harry was starting to fell the fatigue of the long training session and a full day at school, and thinking it was really getting time that he turn in, or at least go up and quietly finish a little homework. However, Crookshanks suddenly pounced from Hermione's lap and onto Ron's bag, which was sitting by his chair on the floor.

Ron bellowed "GET OFF, GET OFF, STUPID CAT!" and seized the bag, trying to yank it out of the grip of Crookshanks' claws.

"Ron, careful, you'll hurt him!" exclaimed Hermione, standing up. Harry was watching in bewilderment, along with the rest of the common room's inhabitants, and Scabbers soared from out of the bag. Crookshanks disentangled himself from the bag quickly, and bounded after him.

"CATCH THAT CAT!" hollered Ron as Crookshanks began a mad chase after Scabbers through the common room. They streaked across the floor and between legs and chairs, and George Weasley lunged for Crookshanks, but missed, knocking into Colin Creevey, who was still holding his large camera from last year. Eventually the pair stopped, with Scabbers quivering under a chest of drawers and Crookshanks staring him down unblinkingly from outside its cover. Ron and Hermione hurried over, and, predictably, began to shout.

"You've got to control that bloody animal, Hermione! Scabbers was here first, and he's ill! He needs rest!"

"All cats chase rats and mice, Ron! It's natural! How am I supposed to teach Crookshanks that it's wrong?"

"You're cat's different! It—it heard me say that Scabbers was in my bag!"

"Ron, that's ridiculous! He could _smell_ him—"

"That animal has it in for Scabbers!" said Ron, taking his rat and marching up to the dormitories, many of the older students snickering.

The next morning was not a warm one between Ron and Hermione. Each was still angry with the other, and when Hermione tried to be nice to Ron to make up for it during Herbology, Ron snapped at her and scattered the orange-sized beans they from the pods they were stripping off their puffapod together all over the floor and table, where they burst into colorful blooms on the spot.

Their next lesson was Transfiguration, after which Harry had resolved to ask Professor McGonagall about Hogsmeade. At the end of the lesson, however, it was she who brought it up first.

"As you are in my house, I am to remind you that you need to bring your Hogsmeade permission forms with you when exiting the castle on Halloween, if you intend to go. Don't forget, because if you don't have a form, you will not be visiting the village!" she said as they packed up their bags.

"Professor?" said Neville nervously, holding up his hand. "My grandmother signed mine, but I think—"

"She mailed it to me directly, Longbottom, I have it," said Professor McGonagall briskly. "She seemed to think that would be more secure."

With much egging on from Ron, Harry sighed nervously and shouldered his bag, walking up to Professor McGonagall, who had now seated herself behind her desk and was rearranging her square spectacles on her nose.

"Professor?" asked Harry tentatively, trying to ignore the glance Hermione had just given him.

"Yes, Potter?"

"I, um, don't have my permission form for Hogwarts because my aunt and uncle—er—didn't sign it, they forgot. We didn't quite part the way we expected this summer."

The look Professor McGonagall was giving him was not encouraging, but Harry took a deep breath anyway and continued.

"So I was just wondering, if, er, maybe I could still go? If you signed it?" he added hurriedly.

"I'm afraid not, Potter. No form, no visiting, that's the rule."

"But I thought that if you said I could go—"

"But I don't," she looked at him, and if he didn't know better, Harry might have thought her face softened just a bit. Something about it changed. "I'm sorry, Potter, but that's my final word. You had better make sure you are not late to your next lesson."

On Halloween, Harry accompanied Ron and Hermione down to the Entrance Hall to see them off. They had finally forgotten about their fight over Crookshanks in light of how miserable Harry was feeling. There would be the feast that evening, which they had missed last year to attend a rather disappointing Deathday party, but Harry felt it would have tasted a lot better coming after a day exploring the shops and sights of Hogsmeade.

"We'll bring you the best from Honeydukes," said Hermione, looking at him almost apologetically.

"And we'll tell you about everything we do," added Ron.

"Don't worry about me, go have fun," said Harry. As unhappy as he was feeling about missing out, he didn't want to spoil it for his friends. "I'll see you later at the feast."

Hermione turned and waved as they left, and Harry waved back before letting his hand drop and starting the climb up the marble staircase to the huge tower of staircases that he would take back up to the common room. Halfway there he changed his mind. Perhaps he'd go to the library instead…though he'd never admitted it to Ron and Hermione, Harry quite liked the library. Full of its towering bookshelves an filtered sunlight from the huge windows that looked out onto the grounds, it was normally very peaceful (as long as you steered clear of Madam Pince) and seemed to have a book on everything. Bullied by Dudley for years growing up, Harry had often resorted to books for refuge, having no friends of his own. Now that he had friends, he had never shared this with them because he thought it would drive Ron crazy, what with Hermione's already intense love of the library, and he felt that her enthusiasm for it was already far beyond his own and didn't need any encouragement. Speaking of, he usually felt too busy to have much time to read for fun, and he wasn't sure where Hermione managed to get all her extra time for it.

Harry changed his mind again. He would go visit Hedwig. He wasn't sure when the last time he'd seen her had been, and he felt that sometimes he was a bit short with her and didn't offer her enough attention or affection when it wasn't the holidays and he had no one else to be with. He switched directions, heading for the West tower.

A few minutes later, he heard a voice call his name. "Harry?"

He turned around to see Professor Watson sticking his head out of his classroom door. "What are you doing?"

Harry shrugged, not wanting to give Watson the full explanation that would probably bore him.

"Where are Ron and Hermione?" It never took new teachers long to figure out the friend groups that students had within their years, and the three of them were almost always together.

"Hogsmeade," said Harry, trying his very best not to sound bitter.

"I see," said Watson slowly, surveying him with a kind eye. "Why don't you come in? You can see the grindylow I've just received for our next lesson. And I have a few other things for my older students you can take a look at, but I'm afraid your class won't be up against quite yet."

Watson stepped aside and held open the door for Harry, who went in curiously.

"Here he is," said Watson, leading Harry over to a fairly large tank that held several clumps of kelp and an orange creature. It had a round head and a skirt of tentacles beneath it, with bony hands and little horns sticking out of its head. It pressed its face against the glass and made a threatening squelching sound as it stared at them.

Watson looked at it thoughtfully. "I don't think he'll give us much trouble, not after the kappas. You just have to learn to break its grip, notice the long fingers?" He turned away from the grindylow and looked at Harry, who did likewise to look at him. Harry noticed that he wasn't that much shorter than the professor. "Would you like some tea? I was just thinking of making myself some. I'm afraid I don't have any loose tea leaves, but I don't think you'll complain?" he said, looking at him and smiling.

Harry was a little startled. "You know about Professor Yao's prediction for me?"

"Yes, a…a friend of mine…a friend of mine and I helped her out of a tight spot years ago. Now that I'm back in the castle she stops by the chat every once in a while, but she still is very reclusive. You're not worried though, are you, Harry?"

"No," said Harry, perhaps a little too quickly.

Watson smiled. "I didn't think you would be. Personally, I've never put much store in Divination. It seems to me there are some witches and wizards who swear by it and the rest don't seem to really care. Here you go," he said, passing Harry a chipped tea cup with the silhouette of Britain on it.

"Thanks," Harry said. He wondered why Watson was going to the effort of talking to him like this. He was clearly a very gentle man, but Harry couldn't figure out what his professor thought of him. Watson was looking at him with an almost nostalgic expression, amiably, but as though he too was thinking deeply about something. His face looked worn down and exhausted, as if he had seen a thousand wearingly things in his life. Harry couldn't help but think back to their first lesson, when it had been he Watson had suddenly jumped in front of to stop facing the boggart.

"Something bothering you, Harry?" asked Watson over his tea. "You look unhappy."

"No, I'm fine," said Harry. "Yes, actually," he said almost as soon as he'd finished his first sentence. Without preamble he went on "Why didn't you let me fight the boggart in our first lesson?"

Watson looked surprised, but he opened his mouth to answer. "I thought that was clear, Harry. I'm sorry if it was presumptuous, but I assumed that your boggart would take the form of Lord Voldemort when it saw you. I didn't think it would be very good for him to appear in the staffroom in front of all your classmates like that, even if it was just a boggart."

Harry looked at him, startled. The only person he'd ever heard say Voldemort's name other than himself was Dumbledore. "I thought of him at first," said Harry, opening up to Watson, "but then I remembered that night on the train, when the dementor came into our compartment."

Watson looked at him in what could have been admiration. "I'm impressed Harry. That suggests that you don't fear a single thing, but an idea, fear. Very wise of you."

"Sir," said Harry.

"Hm?"

Harry had been about to ask what the boggart changed into when Watson saw him, but the man's eyes made him stop. It was a very personal question, and Harry suddenly wondered if he wanted to know the answer. He thought back to the last time he had asked a professor something that personal. _What do you see when you look into the mirror?_ _I? I see myself holding a pair of thick woolen socks._ Harry didn't think that he had received a completely true answer from Professor Dumbledore, and he didn't want to make Professor Watson feel uncomfortable.

"Nothing," said Harry, though so much had passed through his mind in that single second.

Watson didn't say anything, simply viewed him over the edge of his teacup.

"Sir, on the train when we were coming to Hogwarts, with the dementor," said Harry, starting to voice something else that was weighing on him, "you were able to make it go away. I mean, you repelled it."

"Yes," said Watson. "There is a spell, but it is very advanced magic. It still gives me trouble at some times."

"Do you…do you think you could teach me?" asked Harry.

Watson looked at Harry. "That wouldn't be something to take lightly, Harry. It's a draining spell, it requires not only magical power but great strength of character. Not that I don't think you have that, I know that you do, after all that I know you have done and the person I still see sitting in front of me after all of that…but you would have to be very committed."

It was right then that there was an impatient knock on the door. After looking at Harry for a brief moment more, Watson turned and said "Enter."

Anderson was standing in the doorway, no doubt surprised to see Harry sitting there with Watson drinking tea. He was carrying a steaming goblet, full of a muddy purple liquid.

"Ah, Phillip," said Watson. "Thank you so very much. I can bring the goblet back down to you later this evening," he said, standing up to take the goblet and setting it carefully on his desk.

"You should drink that straight, John," said Anderson, sounding frosty, despite his use of Professor Watson's first name.

"I will, sounds fine."

"And if you'll be needing more, but I made a full cauldron of it."

"I'll let you know. Thanks again, Phillip."

Anderson nodded, glared at Harry one last time, and shut the door with a snap.

"I've been feeling a little under the weather lately, and Professor Anderson agreed to make this potion for me," said Watson by way of explanation to Harry. Harry was looking at the goblet in alarm as Watson lifted it and made to drink.

"Wouldn't Professor Hooper have taken care of that?" he asked.

"It's a vey complicated potion, and I'm afraid that both of us, I've been a doctor most of my life, you see, are not quite up to making it. A few of those specialized in potioneering can, however." He raised the goblet to his mouth.

"Professor Anderson's very interested in the Dark Arts," blurted out Harry, not really stopping to think.

"Really," said Watson without much interest, taking a large sip.

"Yes, and some people think that he'd do anything to get the job."

Watson drank more, and shuddered. "Disgusting." He stuck out his tongue with a grimace, but drank even more. The goblet was half empty. Harry didn't know what to do. He didn't want to knock the goblet out of his hands, he didn't think Professor Watson would be very impressed by that, but it was one of the most sinister looking potions he had ever seen. Watson, meanwhile, was quickly draining the goblet of potion. Harry watched, feeling very small.

"Horrible," said Watson, putting the now empty goblet on his desk again. "Shame I have to wait now before I drink anything else." He looked at Harry's expression, and seemed to think that he was still thinking about what he had asked about repelling dementors. "Now, Harry, I suppose I could teach you to fight dementors, but I don't think that it would really be necessary. Professor Dumbledore is being very careful, and they wouldn't dare come further inside the grounds than they're allowed."

Harry swallowed, still too preoccupied by the potion Watson had just drunk to argue. Why was he sitting there so calmly in a blue jumper, instead of convulsing on the ground? Anderson couldn't have just poisoned him right in front of Harry, could he?

"It was very good to talk to you Harry, but I think I need to get back to work now," said Watson. It wasn't a dismissal, more of a regretful statement.

"Okay," said Harry, standing up. "Thanks for the tea and everything, Professor."

"It was my pleasure, Harry. If you ever think you need to talk, feel free to stop by."

Harry nodded, and returned his smile as he left. He was shaken by what he just witnessed, but he spent most of the climb back to the common room thinking about the things that had been said in their brief meeting, and the other things that had been said by Watson's eyes, if not his mouth.

"Watson drank it? He actually drank the _whole thing_ of potion?" said Ron, mouth open in horror.

"Yes," said Harry. They were eating a magnificent Halloween feast that evening, the Great Hall bedecked in an amazing collection of orange and black Halloween decorations. Harry had just finished telling Ron and Hermione about what had happened when he had seen Watson.

"I don't think there could have been anything wrong with the potion," said Hermione, though her expression was troubled. "I mean, Harry was sitting right there, Anderson couldn't have tried anything. And we suspected Anderson once, and we were completely wrong, remember?"

"Honestly, Hermione, not all teachers are saints!" said Ron, and the main courses disappeared, and an amazing array of desserts and sweets appeared, which Harry thought to himself would _have_ to give Honeyduke's a run for its money, even if he had never seen the sweet shop. He cut himself a large slice of treacle tart.

"I wasn't sure what to do, I mean, I tried to stop him drinking it," said Harry. "But I couldn't tell him outright that I thought Anderson was trying to poison him, could I?"

"Oh, you didn't, did you?" said Hermione.

"No," said Harry, thinking back to what he had said a little uncomfortably. "I wonder what's wrong with him, though. Mind you, he does always look exhausted."

Ron nodded his agreement, his mouth stuffed with sweets. He swallowed hugely.

Hermione looked thoughtful, but didn't say anything.

After the rest of the feast, which featured some entertainment by the Hogwarts ghosts, the school was parting into four large groups to go up to their dormitories, although Harry thought he saw Fred and George sneaking off to do some sort of Halloween mischief making. When they got closer to the landing where Mrs. Hudson's portrait hung, there seemed to be a hold up, something noticeable even then when there was a huge group of students trying to get in anyway.

"What's going on?" asked Ginny, who had appeared behind them. Harry shrugged, and soon Percy had arrived, pushing himself through the mass of students importantly.

"Make way, make way," he said. "You can't have _all_ forgotten the password. Excuse me, I'm Head Boy!"

When Percy finally made it to the landing, which Harry couldn't see from where he was standing over the many heads of students, he stopped. "Someone get Professor Dumbledore. Now."

"I'm already here," said Professor Dumbledore's voice, and Harry turned to see him coming up through the crowd of students behind them. He passed them and made it to the top of the stairs after several moments that were extremely quiet, considering the number of students there.

After a moment, Professor Dumbledore turned around to address the students. "Mrs. Hudson is no longer in her portrait. It looks as if it has been attacked."

Before they could quite register this or start to guess what it meant, Peeves zoomed into the scene, cackling madly in a way that could only mean one thing. Nothing good.

"Peeves!" said Professor Dumbledore authoritatively. "Do you know what happened here?"

He always disruptive, but Peeves did show some respect for Dumbledore. In a horrible voice that mocked sycophancy, Peeves answered, "Why yes, your professor headship. She's been screaming through most of the levels of the castle now."

"Why?"

"Seems he rather frightened her when he tried to get in," Peeves leered maliciously, as if about to reveal something that would cause utter panic, which he loved. "Rather nasty temper he's got, that Sherlock Holmes."


	8. Hawkish Defeat

Chapter Eight: Hawkish Defeat

The Gryffindors were all sent back to the Great Hall, which was emptied of its festive decorations and filled with squashy purple sleeping bags. The house tables were moved against the walls, and the teachers were split up so that some guarded the Great Hall and the students, and others were sent to evacuate the rest of the students from the rest of the castle so that they too could be kept in the Great Hall for the night. Harry saw, with a little relief, that Fred and George were nearby with Lee Jordan. Once everyone was seated, and warned to keep quiet, the teachers divided again so some were left behind to watch the students, and others were dissipated across the castle to search for Sherlock Holmes. Everywhere, in whispered conversations, friends asking each other the same question: _How did he get in?_

"We were all in one place, so would that have made it easier?" murmured Hermione.

"Maybe. But if he was looking for me, wouldn't he have come running into the Great Hall?" said Harry.

"Think about it, he probably didn't know what day or time it was," said Ron. "Being on the run like that."

"Why would he have come running in here with all of us there and all the teachers? He couldn't take on that many people. Maybe he was trying to get into the common room to hide there until we got back," said Hermione, looking scared.

"But how did he _do_ it?" asked Ron.

"He's already gotten past the dementors once," said Harry. "Maybe more since he's escaped, to have not been caught yet. He must know some sort of magic that other people don't and that the Ministry hasn't thought of."

"Maybe he Apparated in," said Ron.

Hermione's hiss back was impatient and frustrated. "_When _are you going to read _Hogwarts, A History_?"

"Maybe when you forget some of it and don't have it all memorized," said Ron. "Until then, I can just ask you, can't I?"

It was dark, but even Harry could still make out Hermione rolling her eyes. "You _can't_ Apparate inside the Hogwarts grounds."

"Well you could have just said that."

Around them Harry could hear everyone else proposing their own wild theories. It was around then that Percy and a few teachers came in to tell them all to be quiet. The lights were turned off, and soon only the ceiling of the Great Hall, spangled with the stream of stars and gas of the Milky Way lit the hall. The brilliant white and blue lights of space reflected off Harry's glasses as he looked up and wondered about how Sherlock Holmes could have gotten all the way to Hogwarts, whether or not he really had been abroad beforehand like Malfoy said, and why it really was that he wanted to come after Harry. A last effort to convince them he was a genius? By breaking into Hogwarts and killing Harry? That seemed crazy to him, even for someone like Holmes….

Harry didn't fall asleep, he lay there for some unmeasured amount of time. He heard Professor Dumbledore's voice, speaking to Percy. "How are things here?"

"All under control, Professor, the students are sleeping," said Percy, as if by being Head Boy that made him not one of the students.

"Thank you. Now, I think our Head Girl can take over for now, and you can get some rest yourself, Percy," said Dumbledore. Harry moved a little, and turned over to his other side. He could see the tall profile of Professor Dumbledore now, elongated further by his pointed wizard's hat. The form of Professor Anderson joined him from the Entrance Hall. Wordlessly, the two left Percy, who was leaving to find the Head Girl outside the Great Hall, and began to walk through the rows of silent students.

"No sign of Holmes, anywhere?" said Anderson.

"No," said Dumbledore. "He didn't linger. Not that I expected him to."

"And any ideas about how he could have gotten in, Headmaster?"

"Seven, so far, each as unlikely as the next," answered Dumbledore.

Their voices were quiet as they wound their way through the students together. "I did warn you that something like this could happen, Professor."

"Yes, I remember, Phillip. And I must confess I am not surprised now that it has. Sherlock Holmes was no doubt one of the most brilliant and gifted students to come to Hogwarts in all its years, whatever his other flaws may be."

"Then you may also remember how I cautioned you against hiring a certain member of staff before this school year."

"Do not think for a moment that I have forgotten, Phillip, but I will say to you again, as I have many times before, that I do not regret any of the staff appointments I have made that stand to this day."

"Professor Dumbledore, it seems highly unlikely that even Sherlock Holmes could have entered the castle without inside help—"

"And yet I must believe that it has happened, for there is no doubt that Sherlock Holmes entered this castle, even if he is no longer here, and I am completely confident that there is no one inside this castle who would assist him in entering it." Dumbledore had stopped in his pacing to face Anderson. Harry couldn't see his expression, but it was clear from his tone of voice and words that he refused to argue the point with Anderson. His mind was made up.

"And Potter? Should he be warned?" the distaste was palpable in Anderson's voice, soft as it was. The teachers were approaching them. They would be in Harry's row in a few moments.

"All in due time. But for now, let him sleep. For in dreams we enter a world that is entirely our own…let him swim under the deepest ocean, or climb over the highest cloud." Dumbledore was standing over Harry, who now had his eyes closed to feign sleep but could tell by the sound of how close his voice was. He imagined what Anderson's face would look like at this comment.

"I suggest we go back out and check in with the other teachers," said Dumbledore. "Even if Holmes is gone, there's no point in moving the students now. We should let them spend the night here."

The two teachers left, and Harry turned back over. The stars visible on the ceiling lit the faces of Ron and Hermione, both of whom were awake and alert.

_What was that all about?_ mouthed Ron.

The school talked of nothing but Sherlock Holmes for the next few days. The theories of how he had escaped Azkaban and now broken into Hogwarts became wilder and wilder. Cedric Diggory, who was the captain of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, was insisting to anyone who would listen that Sherlock Holmes must have been a Hufflepuff and a great "finder" to have been able to find a way in. Harry had no idea what that was supposed to mean, but Hermione had just called it utter rubbish, knowing for a fact that Holmes had been in Ravenclaw. Hannah Abbott, actually of Hufflepuff, spent a great deal of their next Herbology lesson trying to convince Harry, Ron, Hermione, and her friend Ernie Macmillan that Holmes has a robot controlled by miniature people on the inside that looks just like him. In the Gryffindor common room that night after dinner Harry overheard a group of students discussing theories that involved a bungee chord and giant inflatable mattress, but Harry had no idea what either of them had to do with breaking into a building. Perhaps breaking out of one if you were to throw yourself off the roof, but they seemed to have no place explaining how he had broken in.

Tighter security was being put into effect all around the castle, and Mrs. Hudson, who apparently was in need of a little break from her job of guarding the Gryffindor common room, had been replaced with a new portrait. Sir Cadogan's painting, complete with its stretch of grass and dapple gray pony, had been erected on the landing. Sir Cadogan was more daring than Mrs. Hudson had been, but he spent most of his time thinking up ridiculous passwords that he changed three times a day and challenging people to duels. This was rather trying on the Gryffindors, who started to rely on each other much more than normal to get into the common room. Sometimes they'd have to check with multiple students before they found one who knew the current password.

Also, one day after Transfiguration, Professor McGonagall asked Harry for a word. Wondering what on Earth he could have done this time, he trudged up to her desk alone, her having already waved off Ron and Hermione.

"Potter, I'm afraid there's no hiding it from you any longer," Professor McGonagall said gravely. Her expression was so dark that Harry couldn't help but feel his heart rate go up a bit. "Sherlock Holmes has escaped from Azkaban to—"

"Oh!" said Harry in relief. Professor McGonagall stared at him.

"Sherlock Holmes has escaped from Azkaban to come after you," she repeated, this time getting her full sentence in.

"I know," said Harry, pleased that nothing new and horrible had happened. His relief seemed to thoroughly alarm Professor McGonagall, who was looking at him with an expression of clear worry. He felt he needed to explain. "I overheard Ron's dad telling his mom at the end of summer break. I already knew."

"Well," said Professor McGonagall, shaking her head a little. "That's obviously not the best way for you to have heard, but…. Well then, Potter, you'll understand then why I don't want you out practicing Quidditch anymore."

"What?!" yelped Harry, his heart rate increasing again. "But the upcoming match against Slytherin! We've got to win, and I've got to train, Professor!"

Professor McGonagall eyed him severely. Harry bit his lip. He knew that she was very interested in Gryffindor's chances, having a sort of rivalry with Anderson over Quidditch. "I shall see if Madam Hooch can oversee your practice sessions at least. Expect to hear from one of us."

The weather grew steadily worse as the day of the match approached. Even inside the castle the rain was audible, though not so much deeper inside. The torches on the walls lit everything well and it was just as warm inside, but outside the wind was howling and it was dark as if the day were one prolonged evening. A few days before, Wood gave the team the unexpected news that they were now playing Hufflepuff instead—apparently Malfoy had managed to get his team to request a change in the schedule so he could rest his arm. Harry saw this as completely ridiculous; Malfoy's arm was clearly fine, but Hermione pointed out that he should be grateful that this was the only trouble Malfoy was managing to stir up regarding his brush with Buckbeak.

Wood, however, was very agitated in having to switch tactics so soon before the game, and he seemed to feel it was necessary to trail Harry between classes, giving him constant tips and lectures to enforce upon him their plans. Harry was finding this extremely daunting, and it got to the point that when he was supposed to be getting to Defense Against the Dark Arts after lunch one day, he didn't realize he was late until it was a few minutes into the lesson. Sprinting away from Wood after glancing at his watch ("And it will be harder to see the Bludgers, Harry, so you may have to use the Sloth Grip Roll!") he arrived at the classroom late.

"Sorry I'm late, Professor Watson, I—" gasped Harry, breaking off. Professor Watson wasn't sitting at his teacher's desk or standing at the front of the classroom. Anderson had seated himself behind the desk, looking very smug indeed.

"Class started five minutes ago, Potter, so we'll take five points from Gryffindor, shall we?" he said.

Harry scowled at him, and went to his seat. The rest of his classmates were still unpacking and sitting down, so he couldn't have been more than a few moments late. Anderson probably hadn't gotten there but a few moments ago to let them in.

"Now," said Anderson to the class at large, "Professor Watson hasn't left any notes for me saying what you have already covered, so—" Hermione's hand had shot up into the air.

"Please, sir," she said. "We've covered—"

"That was not a question, Miss Granger, merely a statement about Professor Watson's incompetency, and if it had been, it would not have been directed at you," Anderson sneered. "As I was saying, since Professor Watson has not left any notes on what you have covered thus far, today we will be discussing werewolves." He opened the textbook sitting on the desk to the very back, where, sure enough, Harry could see the title "Werewolves."

"Turn to page 394."

The class collectively sighed internally. Professor Watson's lessons were often practical and spent observing specimens of the creatures they were studying, or else had demonstrations from Professor Watson himself when it would be difficult for the whole class to participate. They only used the textbook for homework or brief reading for reference.

"Now, who can tell me the ways to recognize the werewolf?" said Anderson, getting up and standing at the front of the class. He looked around at them. "No one? How disappointing," he said, though Hermione's hand was conspicuous in the air.

Hermione took a breath and opened her mouth as if to protest and tell Anderson exactly how to recognize a werewolf, but before she could, Harry stamped hard (perhaps a little harder than he'd intended) on her foot under the desk. "_Leave it_," he hissed. "He'll just get you into trouble."

She obliged, obviously realizing that Harry was right and that winding up Anderson in this situation was not a good idea, especially when he seemed to be enjoying bullying Professor Watson like this. Was he still really that bitter over the ferret?

"A group of third years who couldn't recognize a werewolf if it were standing in the front of the class. That _is _sad," said Anderson.

Anderson proceeded to spend the lesson telling them to turn to page 394 over and over again, which got quite tiresome rather quickly, as they'd all done it at the start of the lesson, and criticizing Professor Watson's teaching style, which Harry was bursting to say was much more effective than Anderson's. The three friends kept stamping on each other's feet because one of them would notice another about to lose it and react just in time to stop Gryffindor losing fifty points or one of them landing themselves a few detentions.

An hour later, the class exited to finally escape Anderson. Once in the corridor, all of the Gryffindors burst out about how unfair Anderson was, called him a load of abusive names, and venting the frustration that had been building in them all of the lesson. Hermione was the only one who seemed subdued, and Harry thought he noticed a book in her bag about werewolves. But how could she have gotten it from the library? She'd been with them in class the whole time and wouldn't have had the time….

The next day was the day of the Quidditch match against Hufflepuff. Harry awoke unusually early, due to the kind intervention of Crookshanks, who hopped up onto his chest as he slept and caused him to nearly concuss himself on the headboard as he tried to jump away while still lying down. Once Harry had caught his breath, he wondered how Crookshanks had gotten in, and saw the door was slightly ajar. Was he here to look for Scabbers?

With the racket the weather was making outside, Harry knew it was no use trying to go back to sleep. Instead he pulled on his robes and left his dormitory, depositing Crookshanks outside, and then exited the common room ("Don't walk away from a challenge, you scoundrel!" called Sir Cadogan).

Harry could feel his body pulsing with the excitement that only a Quidditch match could bring, though the ceiling of the Great Hall at breakfast was a swirling mass of purple and gray, occasionally ripped across by a fork of lightning. He ate an egg and some tomato, and was just starting on his normal course of toast when the rest of the team showed up.

Wood was glaring at the ceiling as if the clouds had personally intervened against him to ruin their match. "Cheer up, Oliver," said Angelina Johnson. "We've played in bad weather before. It's just a bit of rain, we'll be fine."

The rest of the team knew that it was significantly more than just a bit of rain, and Harry was sure that Angelina knew it too, but was exaggerating for Wood's benefit. Harry understood. When around Wood, speech was full of exaggerations, either on his part or theirs, trying to reign him in a bit.

When they trudged down to the pitch before the rest of the school did, it was clear that it was going to be a tough match because of the conditions. As he changed, Harry thought to himself that it was at least good both teams wore bright colors that would be easy to see, but he wondered how he was going to be able to see the Snitch at all in this gale. Once they were all wearing their Quidditch robes, the Gryffindor team looked at Wood expectantly for their pre-match pep talk. But it didn't come. Wood made a few attempts at speaking, but after a day full of frantic reminders and suggestions yesterday, he seemed out of words. Instead he just gestured to the door of the changing room and they followed him out.

Perhaps the crowd was making noise, but if it was, it was lost under the tumult of rain and wind that refused to be upstaged. Harry felt his robes begin to be soaked after standing for a minute of two with him team. They took their places on the ground, facing the Hufflepuffs, who soon appeared from their own changing room, and Wood and Diggory shook hands. Harry saw Madam Hooch blow hard on her whistle through his narrowed eyes, but he couldn't hear the blast of it.

They took off, and Harry was flying. Or perhaps the wind was just tossing him around. He tensed against his Nimbus Two Thousand, and by gripping hard and moving his body he managed to stay steady and steer himself. The match commentary was drowned out by the many other sounds, and a great crack of thunder rocked the air. Harry had no idea what the rest of his teammates or the Hufflepuffs were doing. And where was the Snitch? It had to be around here somewhere, but Harry knew that he had no chance of finding it. A slight twinge of panic affected him. What was he supposed to do? His glasses were splattered with rain, and he didn't want to take a hand off his broom to wipe them. He turned his head to wipe them against his shoulder, keeping the broom steady with much concentration. It helped a little, but he still had no hope of finding the Snitch.

After a few minutes, Harry noticed that the rest of the players seemed to be on the ground or flying down to dismount and Madam Hooch was gesturing for a timeout. He dived down and hopped off his broom, joining his team mates.

Wood was talking to Fred and George. "We've been trying, mate, but the Bludgers blend right in with this," said George, gesturing needlessly. Seeing Harry had arrived, Wood addressed the team.

"I called for a time out," he said. "We've got to coordinate. Harry, _any _sign of the Snitch?"

Harry grimaced. "I'm sorry, Oliver, but I don't think I have a chance wearing these," he said, tapping his glasses. "What's the score?"

"70-0 to us, but we need to catch the Snitch soon, the score could really fluctuate, seeing how a lot of it's really luck with this weather."

Suddenly, Hermione was rushing into their huddle. "Harry, I've had an idea!" she said. "Give me your glasses!"

Without argument, Harry took them off and gave them to her.

Hermione tapped them with her wand and muttered something he couldn't hear. "There!" she said, handing them back. "Now they'll repel water!" Harry put them back on in time to see Wood swoop down on her and hug her fiercely. Grinning a little nervously, Hermione awkwardly waved and left.

"Alright, are we ready to go?" asked Wood, looking back at them. "Try and catch the Snitch soon, Harry," said Wood, his voice almost pleading. "Fred and George, if you can, focus on keeping the Bludgers and other players off of Harry, okay?"

"Gotcha, we'll do our best," said Fred, clapping Wood on the back.

Wood signaled to Madam Hooch, and they were soon airborne again. This time it was better for Harry; he could see what was going on much better, and watched Katie Bell score a goal from up above. He started to circle the pitch, looking for the Snitch, concentrating as hard as he could. He could see Cedric Diggory doing something similar and the other end of the pitch and lower.

After a few minutes, he saw it. The Snitch was hovering halfway between Harry and Diggory, but high above both of them. Harry immediately accelerated, racing after it. He saw out of the corner of his eye Diggory notice the Snitch too, or, more likely, Harry's behavior, and he rushed to pursue. Harry was ahead, the Snitch was darting around slightly, rising higher, but not as fast as they were moving. Harry was going to make it, he stretched out his arm—

And then an unnatural chill pervaded his skin. He was soaked and cold from the rain and November air, but this was different, this was creepier. A silence seemed to blanket over the storm, as if somehow Harry's ability to hear was being lost. And then Harry saw them. Dementors all around him. They hadn't been there a moment before, had they? He looked around, and for one wild moment his eyes fell upon a stand, with the silhouette of a large bird perched on the top. And then the voices filled his head.

_Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!_

_Stand aside, you silly girl…stand aside now…._

_Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead—_

A sort of mist was filling Harry's head. Where was he? Why was he flying on his broom? He needed to find the screaming woman and help her, she was going to be killed—

_Not Harry! Please…have mercy…have mercy…._

He was falling.

"We're so lucky the ground was so muddy."

"Look, it didn't even break his glasses."

"No, that would be because of Dumbledore's charm."

"He looks pale."

"Of course he looks pale! He fell over a hundred feet! Let's chuck you off the Astronomy Tower and see what you look like!"

"He always looks pale."

"That was the scariest thing I've ever seen in my life."

The scariest thing—the screaming woman—Harry tried to sit upright suddenly and groaned, falling back down on the cushions.

"Harry!"

He opened his eyes to see that Ron, Hermione, and the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, save Wood, was leaning over him. He was lying in a bed in the Hospital Wing, and the storm was still raging outside, albeit not as fiercely.

"What happened?" he asked.

"The dementors got inside the grounds somehow," said Fred. "Came onto the pitch, and you fell off your broom."

"Dumbledore did something, something to slow you down before you hit the ground," said Ron.

"He was furious," said Alicia Spinnet softly. "It was terrifying, I've never seen Dumbledore so angry before. I heard the Minister of Magic himself is here now, and Dumbledore's arguing with him about it."

"What about the match?" said Harry.

No one said anything.

"Are we doing a rematch?" prompted Harry.

"No one blames you, mate," said Fred. "But Diggory caught the Snitch right after you fell. He tried to call it off once he'd realized what happened, but Hufflepuff did win."

"Not by too much, though," interjected Angelina Johnson quickly. "We still have a chance for the cup, it all depends on points," she said.

Fred and George started arguing about the points and who would have to beat who and by how much, and Professor Hooper came in. She looked uneasy and if she had been having some rough days recently, her long hair in a ponytail and circles under her eyes.

"I'm going to need some of you to clear off," she said to them. "He needs a little space, we don't want to overexert him," she gave Harry a small and rather weak smile, looking down on him. She was holding a cup of something for him to drink.

The Quidditch team gave Harry a few final looks, and Katie told him she hoped he felt better soon. Harry thanked her, and watched them leave, hoping Wood wasn't somewhere beating himself up too badly.

"Can we stay?" asked Hermione, speaking for the first time. Professor Hooper looked at her for a moment and then nodded. "Just the two of you," she said. "Drink this, okay Harry?" she said, giving him the potion.

Harry took it from her, and took a tentative sip. It tasted a little like water that had had lettuce boiled in it or something. "So," he said, trying to sound casual. "Did anyone get my Nimbus?"

Hermione glanced at Ron, looking almost as nervous as Professor Hooper.

Ron cleared his throat and looked at Harry, taking it as his cue to break the news. "Well, when you fell off there was, erm, a lot of wind."

Harry gave him a look that said "go on."

"And it…well, it sort of blew into the Whomping Willow. And, well, you know what the Whomping Willow's like with brooms and wands and things."

Harry did. And to get the message he didn't need Ron to pull out from under the bed the bag that contained his decimated, finally defeated broomstick.


	9. The Map of Private Eyes

Chapter Nine: The Map of Private Eyes

Harry had forgotten exactly what the ceiling of the hospital wing looked like, with its arcing beams that caused even darker areas in the stone at night, but he was getting thoroughly reacquainted with it during his stay there. Professor Hooper had insisted that he stay for a few days after his fall, and Harry spent the first night hearing the memories of the screams the dementors had brought to him in his mind.

His mother's screams. Because that was who Harry knew them to belong to, now. When the dementors drew close to him, the fearful memories they evoked in Harry were those he hadn't even realized he still possessed, but had apparently been hidden in the back of his mind all these years. Before he had learned he was a wizard and lived with the Dursleys year-round, he had believed their story of his parents dying in a car crash, and whenever he tried to remember the event, all he could come up with was a strong flash of green light. Now the events of that night were brought back to him more clearly, his mother's voice pleading with Voldemort not to kill her only son replaying over and over in his head.

Turning over on his side and away from the ceiling, Harry remembered something else about the Quidditch match. He had seen the raven again. It had been perching on one of the stands; though Harry didn't understand how there could be any correlation, he did realize that his too sightings of the bird had each been followed by a near-death experience. First, the Knight Bus had careened towards him unexpectedly, and if he hadn't fallen he could have been flattened. Then he had fallen more than a hundred feet to the ground, and Dumbledore's charm had been what had saved him. Harry hadn't been raised in the magical world, so he didn't know if he ought to be terrified of the raven like Ron, or if that was really just superstition, and Hermione was right to have been so impatient with him and Professor Yao about it. The whole thing left him feeling nothing but confused and unsettled, as if the dementors didn't give him enough of that.

The next morning Harry awoke slightly later than normal, which was probably very good since he knew he hadn't fallen asleep until very late. There was a tray with a light breakfast on it set by his bed, probably by Professor Hooper. He lay there a few more minutes, then reached for his glasses and stretched, pushing himself up to a sitting position with his pillows behind him. Harry slowly began to eat the toast and fruit, wondering if Ron and Hermione would have time to visit him before class. They had said they would come to see him soon the evening before, but he wasn't sure what time it was or if they'd be able to immediately. However, soon Harry became aware that there were voices talking softly nearby. He was alone in the hospital wing, the only student occupying a bed, but the door to Professor Hooper's office was closed, and one of the voices sounded like hers. The other was male. Was it…? Yes, Harry thought he recognized Professor Watson's voice.

Harry didn't really think of it as eavesdropping, he just naturally started to listen and swallowed only what he had put in his mouth at the time, laying down his fork. It was difficult to hear exactly what was being said, but he could make out bits and pieces here and there.

"…been so long…and you really don't know anything," said Professor Watson's voice.

Then Professor Hooper, "Really, John…know it is hardest…you were so close…."

"I just worry about him…still believe…."

"Of course. You know…came to me…."

"…they said, you can't really think he'd…."

"Never," said Professor Hooper's voice. "You know I trusted him."

"…harsh to you."

"He was—_is_—a great man. I know that."

"…just don't want…get himself hurt," said Professor Watson. His voice sounded so small through the wood of the door, it was very difficult for Harry to understand what he said. It sounded as if they were both talking about the same person, a boy or a man, who they had both known but hadn't talked to in a long time. An old friend? Harry didn't know if Professor Watson and Professor Hooper were friends, but he had heard that Professor Watson helped her with her classes for the older students some times. Perhaps they had known each other at Hogwarts, or done some healing work together before they both became teachers. Professor Watson had said something about being a doctor, and this seemed to be his first year teaching, certainly.

"…know," continued Professor Hooper. "It's dangerous, what he's done, but…reason."

"Twelve years. Still a day…miss him."

"I do too."

Harry wondered what exactly was going on. Twelve years, plenty had happened twelve years ago. The most pivotal moment of his life, probably, had happened, when Voldemort had murdered his parents. So that would have been around the time of the war, and Voldemort's downfall. They were probably talking about something to do with that, what else did people talk about that happened then?

Without being able to restrain himself, the urge to yawn swept over Harry's head. He couldn't help it, he stretched his arms and yawned widely, missing the next part of the conversation. He still felt a little groggy, though the food had helped.

The door to Professor Hooper's office opened a sliver, and Professor Watson's back was visible as he said something else to Professor Hooper, hand on the door handle and turned away from Harry's bed. Then the door opened more fully, and the two teachers walked out together.

"Thanks, Molly," said Professor Watson. "It's always good to talk to you…especially about this." His voice was said and heavy, but he noticed Harry and smiled and gave a small wave before turning back to Professor Hooper.

"Of course, John," she said. "And if anything else happens…."

"I'll come by immediately. It's good to be here, with a friend."

Professor Hooper smiled. "I'll see you later, John," she said, and went back into her office.

Professor Watson gave a small sigh, and then walked over to Harry's bed. "Hello, Harry. How are you feeling?"

"I'm alright," said Harry, though he was being untruthful. His body was sore from the day before, but more importantly, he felt psychologically weighed down with all the things that had happened, and all the things he was feeling. "Do you and Professor Hooper know each other well?"

"Yes, we were at Hogwarts together, and we worked together sometimes afterward. Interestingly enough, though we both worked in medicine, we only met because of a…friend. Well, not much of a friend to her at the time, but I think they started to get to know each other a little better."

Harry wasn't sure what to say to that. It was probably the same friend they had just been discussing. Who were they, and had something happened to them?

"How are you, Professor?" he said, trying to be polite. "Weren't you just feeling sick yourself?" He did look a little so, too. His blue sweater was slightly loose on him, and his face looked weary and sleep deprived even more than usual.

"Yes, a trifle. Things have cleared up for me. I'm sorry I missed the match yesterday, but I hear it was something of a fiasco."

Harry wondered how serious he was being, and how much he was just joking with him. Professor Watson pulled up a chair by Harry's bed and sat down, surveying him gently.

"Yeah, you could say that," said Harry, managing a weak smile. There was moment's pause, and then the thing he had been wondering half the night burst out of him. "_Why?_ Why is it that they affect me this way?"

"The dementors?" asked Professor Watson. Then, seeing Harry's expression and that he looked ready to speak again, he cut in sharply. "It has nothing to do with being weak," he said, almost reading Harry's mind. "Dementors feed off our very worst experiences, the things that give us nightmares. Perhaps their affect on you is so strong, Harry, because of the true horrors that lie in your past. Your classmates feel how awful the dementors are, too, but most of them could barely begin to imagine the things you've been put through. It's enough to make anyone fall off their boom, and nothing to be ashamed of."

This small speech was accompanied by something in Watson's face and eyes Harry didn't know what to make of. It seemed like he spoke not only for Harry, but perhaps for himself, as well.

"That other day when we were talking in your office," said Harry, "you said that you could teach me how to repel the dementors."

Watson sighed. "I won't pretend to be an expert, Harry. But, I suppose that since this has happened to you twice, if you really want to learn…it may be a good idea to at least try. I don't want you to make any promises to yourself, though—you may find it's too much for you, and that's perfectly okay."

"I want to do it," said Harry resolutely.

"Okay, Harry," said Professor Watson. "We can work on it. I'll have to think how we'll practice…obviously, I can't bring a real dementor into the school. And not until after the holidays, I'm afraid I'll be very busy for awhile. I chose a very inconvenient time to turn ill."

Harry smiled. "Thank you loads, Professor."

"Of course, Harry. Is there anything else you need?"

The simple question reminded Harry forcefully of a time when Professor Dumbledore had asked him something similar the year before. _Is there anything you wish to tell me? _Then, too, Harry's mind had been swirling with thoughts and difficult emotions, but he hadn't said anything about them to Dumbledore. He found himself doing the same thing now.

"No," said Harry, pulling a braver smile. "Thanks for asking, though, Professor."

"Anytime, Harry. And if you ever need to talk, you know where to find me. I'll have to see about those dementor lessons. I'll let you know when I think we can start, okay?"

"Sounds great."

"And now you really should eat your breakfast," said Professor Watson, standing up to go. "It looks good, and anyway, if you don't, Professor Hooper will come back and run me out so you can, old friends or not."

The prospect of anti-dementor lessons with Watson, the holiday spirit that was beginning to infect the school (which was always spectacular at Christmas), his release from the hospital wing, the fact that Ravenclaw killed Hufflepuff in the final Quidditch match before the holidays, and both Ron and Hermione deciding to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas all led to a positive swing in Harry's mood. And an increase in the probability that his life will be narrated in run-on sentences. However, there was slight dip when the news came that there would be another Hogsmeade visit right before the holidays.

Ron and Hermione had left for the village, and Harry started walking towards the Owlery, deciding that this time he actually would go visit Hedwig. He didn't want to go and find Watson, who was probably busy catching up on work he hadn't done when he'd been sick. He was rounding a corner into a more narrow passage when he heard his name.

"Psst, Harry!"

Harry turned around, cocking an eyebrow. He thought almost everyone had left for Hogsmeade to do all their Christmas shopping there. A bright red head popped out from a small nook in the wall.

"George?" asked Harry. "Fred?" He had actually not been sure which one it was, but as the second Weasley twin appeared, Harry was saved and his uncertainty didn't seem so awkward.

"Good day to you, young Harry!" said George jovially. Harry was pretty sure this was George, the G on his sweater was helpful.

"Hi," said Harry. "What are you two up to? I thought for sure you'd be in Hogsmeade."

"Oh, were heading over to Zonko's now," said Fred.

"Just thought we'd stop and give you a little bit of early holiday cheer before we did," said George.

"And you just happened to be waiting for me here?" asked Harry, feeling suspicious. "How did you know I'd come this way?"

Each smirked and eyed the other. "Funny you should ask, Harry," said Fred. He revealed a piece of very old parchment from under his robes. "Let us show you."

Curiosity sparked, but still wary that the twins may just be trying to make a fool of him, Harry crossed over to them and stood next to Fred to see the paper he was holding. It was blank.

Harry turned to the twins, narrowing his eyes. George cleared his throat and pointed his wand at the parchment, resting it in the center. In a over exaggerated accent, he said pompously, sounding a bit like Percy, "I solemnly swear that I am up to good," words Harry was sure Percy had never uttered.

Brown, almost maroon ink started to spread from the point the wand had touched, forming a brilliant drawing of the castle and the Whomping Willow reaching its branches over the towers. Ornate writing proclaimed above:

"Quilltip, Redtail, Padfoot, and Claws Proudly Present The Map of Private Eyes?" read Harry.

"This little map here, Harry, is the secret to our success," said George. "Open it."

Harry took the paper from Fred, and did just that. He gasped. Inside was a clear, complete, and detailed map of Hogwarts, showing classrooms, corridors and rooms Harry was familiar with, and even more places he had had no idea existed, even this being his third year at the castle. And all over it, moving and sitting still, were hundreds of tiny footprints labeled with names. "Are these…the _people_ inside the castle?" asked Harry.

"Yep," said George. "Every student, every teacher, anyone who ever comes to visit. You can see where they are all the time, passages all over the castle going everywhere, well-hid rooms you may not discover otherwise…this little beauty is a goldmine of information."

"It's…amazing," said Harry. It really was. He couldn't even begin to imagine all the things it could let him do.

"Oh, you'll have plenty of time to use it to explore," said Fred, watching Harry's face as if he was reading his mind, too. "It's dead useful for avoiding Filch and other teachers, for finding what you need, sneaking out at night…."

"Wait," said Harry. "What do you mean I'll have plenty of time to use it? You aren't—"

"Giving it to you?" asked George. "Yes, we are. We've decided your need is greater than ours, young Harry. Anyway, we've got the thing pretty much memorized, and we've developed plenty of skills for avoiding people."

Harry was barely even paying attention. "Who are these people?"

"No idea," said Fred, shrugging. "We stole it from Filch in our first year. They've helped us so much, though. Brave men, working to pass down their great knowledge of the great magic of mischiefmaking everywhere…."

Harry grinned.

"Well, we'd best be going," said Fred, clapping a hand on Harry's shoulder. "See you later, Harry." He said this last part with a twist of his neck and a hint-ladden look that reached Harry just as another thought did—this map was a perfect path to Hogsmeade.

"We recommend this one," said George in a very loud fake whisper, pointing to a small corridor marked very nearby, near Harry's left thumb. He followed it with his eyes to see it lead off the paper, with a small arrow reading HOGSMEADE.

The twins walked off, turning to each other and sharing a high-five.

Harry waited quietly, listening for noise above him. Then, slowly and quietly, he opened the trapdoor above him, and emerged into some sort of storeroom. It looked like it must be Honeyduke's; there were crates marked with the names of different sweets everywhere. Harry had followed Fred and George's map all the way there, underground in a sort of carved out tunnel. Had the tunnel always been there, or had the makers of the map somehow carved it? He didn't know. He threw his invisibility cloak over himself, and dashed up the stairs.

Honeyduke's was amazing. There was an entire wall of different types of chocolate, barrels and barrels of enchanted sweets to make the eater feel or act certain ways, shelves full of sugar quills, counters displaying lollipops and candied apples, crystallized fruit and a small corner labeled "unusual flavors." There were different types of chewing gum, and pastries and truffles and decorated cakes, and icecreams a witch was scooping into cones for customers…and it just went on and on. Harry lingered for awhile, observing the sweets, and then he saw Ron and Hermione through the shop window, walking side by side down the snowy street. Harry dashed out after them.

Coming up behind his friends, Harry gathered some snow and threw it at the back of Ron's head.

"What…?" he heard Ron say, and stifled a giggle. Then he came up behind Hermione and started to enchant her hair to bounce up and down. "What's going on?" she asked, alarmed. Ron swiped at the air around her head, and hit Harry's arm. The cloak slipped a little, and Harry's hand was visible.

"Harry?" asked Hermione incredulously.

"Yep," said Harry, pulling off the cloak. Hermione covered her mouth, eyes wide.

"Harry, what are you doing here?"

"Came into Hogsmeade," said Harry, nonchalantly. Then he told his friends all about his encounter with Fred and George, and he showed them the so-called Map of Private Eyes.

"That's incredible," said Ron. "I can't believe Fred and George told _you_ about it. They even gave it to you! They'd never give me something as cool as this."

"But Harry, this is really, really, dangerous," said Hermione, biting her lip.

"Oh, come on Hermione, it's Christmas!" said Ron casually.

"I'm freezing," said Harry.

"Oh my gosh, Harry, you don't even have a coat! Let's go to the Three Broomsticks, you need to get warm," said Hermione, temporarily distracted.

They spent a very enjoyable time at the Three Broomsticks, a pub where Harry was introduced to Butterbeer for the first time. Although Hermione did eventually remember herself and admonish him for his conduct.

It was night, and Harry, Ron and Hermione were all under the invisibility cloak, exploring parts of the castle they hadn't realized were there before, aided by the map. All the other students' footprints were huddled in their dormitories, though Fred and George's prints were drifting along the thirteenth floor. Harry was studying the map, and he kept pointing out interesting passages that they would then dash off to find, and then appear at some other part of the castle, where something else would catch his eye. Soon they were laughing and panting from all the running, struggling to keep themselves all under the cloak as they moved.

Harry thought to himself that this was the most fun he had had all year. Hogwarts's magic never ceased to amaze him. Glancing down at the map, he spotted a name he wasn't expecting. "Ron, Hermione, look," he said, pointing to the staffroom on the fourth floor. "Mycroft Holmes is here."

"What?" asked Ron, looking over Harry's shoulder.

"Look, he's talking to a few of the other teachers in the staffroom," Harry indicated the group of footprints in the room, labeled "Minerva McGonagall," "Rubeus Hagrid," "Filius Flitwick," and "Mycroft Holmes."

"What's the Minister of Magic doing here?" asked Ron.

"Dunno," said Harry.

"Oh, you don't think it's something serious, is it?" asked Hermione worriedly. The last time the minister had come it had been to take Hagrid to Azkaban for possible involvement with the Chamber of Secrets, unless the rumors were true that he'd come the night Sherlock Holmes broke in.

"There's only one way to find out," said Harry, holding out the lit lip of his wand and taking a step forward.

Hermione groaned. "Oh Harry, we can't…what if we get caught, what if it's something private…."

"You didn't seem so worried about getting caught when we found the hidden swimming pool," said Ron, turning to look at her.

Hermione blushed.

"So, are we going then?" asked Harry.

Hermione bit her lip, but conceded. "I guess so…."

"Let's go, mate," said Ron.

Harry examined the map more closely, and plotted a path to the staffroom from where they were. A few minutes later, they were near the door, and its light was spilling out onto the stone floor in front of them.

"We're not going to go in, are we?" said Hermione.

"How else are we going to hear what's going on?" asked Ron.

They crept forward slowly, Harry in front. They slowly sat down against the wall next to the door, Harry checking that they cloak covered them all fully.

"You'll be needing to see the headmaster about that in the morning, then, Minister," said Professor McGonagall, though not coolly. Harry, Ron, and Hermione could hear her clearly enough from where they were.

"Of course," said Mycroft Holmes.

"Why did you come out so late?" asked McGonagall.

"Oh, you know," said Holmes. "Late hours at the office…what with my…_dear_ brother complicating things."

Harry frowned. _Were_ Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes related? He couldn't really have a different brother who was complicating things for the Ministry, could he? He looked at Hermione for help, and she seemed unsurprised, but was listening intently. Ron turned to look at Harry, his own face bewildered.

"Shame, it's a shame what happened to him," said Professor Flitwick. "Certainly one of the brightest pupils I've ever taught, if not _the_ brightest. Can't believe he left himself go like he did, did all those things…he used to complicate things for us here, too…."

"We never seemed to have so much trouble before Sherlock Holmes came to Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall, confirming what Harry had wondered. "I remember at the time, I wasn't sure if he was causing all the trouble, or if all that had been underground at Hogwarts, and he merely brought it to our attention…he did love solving mysteries, that one."

"An' now we know he prob'ly made all that up, too," said Hagrid gruffly. "Wouln't a been 'ard to bribe some other students to preten' they were commiten' all those crimes, huh?"

"Yes, well," said Mycroft Holmes stiffly. Harry could practically see him swinging around his lime green umbrella by the handle. "It's also partly because of him I'm here. If you two remember teaching Sherlock, then you must remember who his friends were."

"Of course," said Professor McGonagall. "Both out of place, both so lonely…they latched onto each other right away, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson."

Harry's mouth fell open. Ron looked like he might say something, but Hermione gestured frantically for him to be quiet.

"Believe me, I was surprised Sherlock was capable of having _one_ friend, but when Greg Potter and Molly Hooper joined their little group, I could hardly comprehend it," said Mycroft Holmes.

Harry gasped audibly, eyes staring at the crack of light coming around the door. _His father? Friends with Sherlock Holmes?_

"They were never as close as John and Sherlock, but still, it must have meant the world to Sherlock to have other friends, too," said Professor Flitwick. "He used to get picked on more than Neville Longbottom does now."

"Perhaps that was what turned him," said Professor McGonagall sadly. "And then there was that scrape with the drugs in his fifth year…well…still, if you'd told me then what he was to do, I wouldn't have believed it."

"What, exactly?" asked Mycroft Holmes tentatively.

"What d'ya mean?" asked Hagrid. "We all know 'bout what he did."

"The worst my dear brother got up to isn't widely known, actually," said Mycroft Holmes.

"It isn't?" squeaked Professor Flitwick. "Worse than those dealings with the suicides, the drugs, and kidnapping those poor children?"

"Yes," said Mycroft Holmes heavily. "And partly why I am here. You have told Potter, haven't you? That Sherlock is after him? I met Potter over the summer, but I didn't think anything should be said then."

"Yes, I did," said Professor McGonagall, "although he already knew. He said that he'd heard his friend Ron Weasley's parents talking about it. You know Arthur Weasley, Minister."

"Oh, yes," said Mycroft Holmes with slight displeasure that made Ron frown. "Well, the reason that we think Sherlock might come after Potter is more complicated than I've let on before."

"What are you saying?" asked Professor McGonagall.

"You remember how Jim Moriarty confronted him, and his murder was how we brought Sherlock in?"

"Yes, of course," said McGonagall. "Jim Moriarty was the one who uncovered his deception, wasn't he?"

"Yes," said Mycroft Holmes. "But that wouldn't have been any reason for Moriarty to confront him face to face, he did that for another reason. The Potters."

"What do they have to do with any of this?" asked Professor Flitwick. "How was Harry brought into all this mess?"

"Why indeed," sighed the minister heavily. "Once Greg and Lily Potter realized that You-Know-Who was after them, they went into hiding using the Fidelius Charm."

"The Fidelius Charm?" squeaked Professor Flitwick, sounding intrigued and slightly excited.

"Wha's that?" asked Hagrid.

"It's a complicated and rare spell not many attempt, but it's very, very useful if mastered," started Flitwick. "A person or a group of people use a location as a hiding place, or some other meeting place they don't want others to know about, and they conceal the knowledge of the location's whereabouts in a single person. The only way anyone can learn where or what the location is is if the secret keeper tells them, or it's forced out of them. You could be standing outside looking through the window, and not see the people inside or realize it was what you were looking for if the secret keeper hadn't told you."

"And Sherlock was the Potters' secret keeper," said Mycroft Holmes. "I'm sure it seemed perfectly logical, he was a friend and you know how he used to be, it would have been impossible to get anything out of him that he didn't want to share or brag about."

"You're not saying that he—" gasped Professor McGonagall.

"Told Who-Know-Who where the Potters were hiding?" finished Mycroft Holmes. "If he hadn't, then You-Know-Who wouldn't have been able to find them, would he? That's why Moriarty approached him, though everyone had been told to let the Ministry find Sherlock Holmes. He was never in their little gang, but I think he admired them at school, and was upset by Greg and Lily Potter's deaths."

"I remember when I wen' to go get Harry outa the rubble," said Hagrid. "'E was so alone an' scared-lookin', and Sherlock Holmes comes up to me, ridin' a flyin' motorbike, an' 'e says 'Give 'im to me, Hagrid. I can take 'im back to Baker Street, and John and I'll look after 'im for now.' But I 'ad me orders from Dumbledore, and I said no, 'e's going to 'is aunt and uncle's. Suppose now, lookin' back, that psychopath would 'ave thrown Harry off the bike while they was in the air. An' now 'e wants to finish wha' 'e's started, an' kill all the Potters! His own friends and their son!" Hagrid yelled the end angrily and loudly.

Harry's insides had liquefied and sunk to the bottom of his stomach. He felt limp and stunned.

"Hagrid, keep your voice down!" said Professor McGonagall, her own almost breaking. "It's two-thirty in the morning!"

"Is it really?" asked Mycroft Holmes, sounding surprised and a little less collected than his normal self. "I'd best be going, if that's the case. So sorry to leave like this, but—"

Hermione jerked Harry's sleeve unexpectedly. Her face looked scared. It was a long moment before Harry, in his shocked state, understood what she had realized before he and Ron. They need to get away, Mycroft Holmes and the other teachers would probably be emerging soon, and cloak or no cloak, they were solid and needed to clear out to be safe.

"Come on!" mouthed Hermione, pulling up both Harry and Ron, Harry sure bits of them were being exposed and the cloak slid over them. They hurried away as fast as they could, Hermione taking the map from Harry and leading them over to an empty classroom nearby. They didn't risk making noise by shutting the door, just piled in and moved to the other end of the room, still under the cloak. It was only after they had all seen all four other sets of footprints leave the floor, making "Harry Potter," "Ronald Weasley," and "Hermione Granger" the only ones left on that level, that they pulled the cloak off of themselves, stepping away from each other, and Ron and Hermione looking at Harry's face tentatively.

"Harry…." They were both lost for words.


	10. The Firebolt

Chapter Ten: The Firebolt

Harry didn't have nightmares that night about what he had overheard, simply because he hadn't had enough sleep to dream. He wasn't even sure that he had fallen asleep, for all he knew he had lain awake in bed the whole night, torturing imaginations of Sherlock Holmes and the way he had betrayed his parents vividly playing in his mind. He didn't know what Jim Moriarty or the pre-Azkaban Sherlock Holmes looked like, or what either of their voices sounded like, but his mind had no difficulty constructing them for him.

And how _had_ he managed to break out of there? Harry had heard Hagrid speak of Azkaban and knew that most of the inmates went insane. How had Holmes been able to stand it, stay cool-headed enough to successfully escape? What sort of person could he possibly be to _do _all of that, to do that to some of his only friends? And what had Watson been playing at, being friends with him? How could this be true? Was he only nice to Harry because he felt guilty? How could a man who seemed so gentle have been best friends with the person Harry was now starting to hate more than Voldemort? Because Harry felt a new hatred surging towards him, directed at Sherlock Holmes. It was almost as if Voldemort wasn't human to Harry, perhaps because of just how far gone he was…but Holmes was different. He was a person, and Harry couldn't understand how any person could be so evil.

"Harry," said Hermione, her voice full of concern and tentative when he finally came down the spiral staircase into the common room the next day. "Are you okay?"

Harry just sort of shrugged his shoulders, not sure how to answer that question.

"Did you sleep at _all_, mate?" asked Ron, staring at him unflatteringly. Now that Harry thought about it, he must look like death. He tried to run a hand through his hair, but knots provided too much resistance for it to make it all the way through. He gave up.

When Harry didn't say anything else, just sat down numbly in an arm chair near them, Ron pressed on. "Look, Harry, we know you must be really upset about what we heard last night."

"And we want you to know that we're here for you," said Hermione. "Don't shut us out, it won't help you."

"And, you can't go doing anything stupid," said Ron. "Holmes is dangerous, and you can't—"

"Aren't you the one who's been encouraging me to go into Hogsmeade all this time?" asked Harry, cutting through the words they'd clearly prepared for when he came down. It was bright outside, and the clock over the fire said it was past noon.

Ron didn't seem phased, but his ears turned ever so slightly pink. "That's different, and I know things are different now. Look, Harry, the point is, you can't go _looking _for Holmes."

"That's just what he'd want!" said Hermione, sounding close to tears. "Don't make things easy for him, the Ministry's bound to catch him soon, and then he'll be back in Azkaban! And—and he'd deserve that place!" This was quite harsh for Hermione, who Harry was sure would normally think no one would deserve to be in Azkaban with the dementors.

"Maybe that isn't so bad for him," said Harry, voicing something that he'd wondered the night before. "How else could he have managed to escape? It can't be as bad for him if he managed to escape, when everyone else in there goes crazy. Maybe he just doesn't have emotions."

"Don't be stupid," said Ron again.

"Malfoy knows," said Harry in a pained voice, twisting in his chair. "Remember when he came after us after potions? Saying he'd hunt him down and want revenge?"

"And Donovan Malfoy is the world's best when it comes to good judgement," snapped Hermione tearfully. "Oh, Harry, you can't possibly think Malfoy has the right idea and we don't."

"I don't think that," said Harry quietly. "You just don't understand. And you can't because you'll never hear it. What I hear when a dementor gets close to me." He looked up, worried that his eyes would become a mirror of Hermione's, which were coated in tears that were starting to slip down her face. "My mum, screaming and pleading with Voldemort. And him laughing as he murders her. And it's all because of Sherlock Holmes."

Ron didn't protest to Harry using Voldemort's name. His own face had gone pale, his freckles standing out.

"Where is everyone?" said Harry, looking around the still and silent common room.

"It's the first day of the holidays," said Ron after several moments when Hermione didn't speak. "Everyone else has gone home."

Harry nodded, his throat restricted.

"Harry," said Hermione, her voice breaking. "You have to trust us. We have to trust each other on this. None of us can be thinking of trying to do something as crazy as going after Holmes. We need to stick together."

Ron nodded. "I know you've done loads before, mate, but you'd be no better prepared to catch Holmes than the Aurors, so leave it to them. You can't put yourself in that much danger for nothing by trying to find him, and it'll be just what he wants, for you to do something like that. Don't give him that."

Harry looked into the faces of his friends, his two best friends in the world, the two best friends he could ever have, who were looking so honest and so scared on his behalf. His heart was pumping and ready to burst with something, something Harry realized was love as he looked at them, knowing that they would, of course, stick together, and that none of them would ever betray another, not for anything. Because there could be nothing better they could gain than the friendship they had, and nothing more precious that they could lose.

Harry nodded, and swallowed painfully. "Okay," he said in a shaking voice. "Okay. I won't do anything like that. We'll wait this out together."

The three of them looked at each other, sharing smiles and tears.

On Christmas morning, Harry awoke at a much more healthy hour, and outside the small window of their dormitory the world was frosted with white, soft flakes waltzing lazily through the air to join their comrades adorning the landscape.

"Merry Christmas, Harry!" said Ron happily, one hand already in a box of chocolate frogs from Hermione, and his bright red hair rumpled. He was wearing a new Weasley sweater over his pajama pants.

"You too, Ron!" said Harry. There was a small pile of presents amassed at the foot of his bed, too, and he stretched and put his glasses on before starting to open them. Hermione had given him a large bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, Mrs. Weasley a new sweater like Ron's, but with a large H instead of an R and in a more tasteful shade of red than maroon, and a small sample of her own cooking. The Dursleys had simply taped a 50-pence piece onto a thoroughly unemotional card, but beneath these was a rather large, anonymous parcel wrapped in brown paper.

"Ron," said Harry curiously, "do you know what this is?"

"How can I, you haven't unwrapped it," said Ron unconcernedly. "Go on, open it up."

Harry felt the different ends of the package. It was long, and fairly thin. The only time Harry had ever received a present without any sort of card had been for Christmas in his first year; then it had turned out to be his invisibility cloak, which had transformed the past two years he'd spent at Hogwarts. Later Harry had realized it was from Dumbledore, but he had merely been passing on something that had belonged to Harry's father, happening to have it at the time Harry's parents had died.

"It doesn't have a note," said Harry. "Remember when Dumbledore sent me the invisibility cloak?"

"Yeah," said Ron, looking interested and excited now. "Could your dad have had more cool stuff lying around at Dumbledore's?"

Harry smiled slightly, but shook his head. "I don't think so, it was just chance Dumbledore had the cloak, and he would have given me anything else before now, wouldn't he? But who's going to be sending me stuff like this for Christmas?"

"Dunno," said Ron. "Hurry up, let's see what it is."

Harry looked down from Ron to the parcel, and started to unwrap it from the ends. The paper unrolled, and out onto his bed came—a _Firebolt._

"Wow," said Harry. It was just like the amazing broom he had seen in the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies over the summer—in fact, it _was_ that broom, it was just like it from the smoothly polished handle to the perfectly aligned twigs of the broom.

Ron had dropped his box of chocolate frogs and bounded off his bed over to Harry's. "Harry—a _Firebolt?"_

Harry slid off his bed, and then reverently picked up the broom. He took his hand off it, and it hovered above the floor at just the right height for him to mount.

"Well, it wasn't the Dursleys…," he said.

"Couldn't have been Hagrid," said Ron. "Look, there're some of his rock cakes for you there, I got the same sort of package. Don't eat any if you like your teeth how they are, though."

Harry smiled faintly. "It definitely couldn't have been Dumbledore, he can't go spending money like this on students…Ron, this must have cost a fortune…."

"Hey, I know!" said Ron. "Watson!"

"Watson?" asked Harry incredulously. "No way!"

"He likes you! You're the best in his class besides Hermione, of course, and he's always really nice to you."

"If Watson had money like this, he wouldn't be a teacher, and he'd go buy himself some new robes. That's pretty far fetched, he wouldn't go and buy a student something like this out of the blue."

"Okay, maybe not," said Ron. They passed a few minutes discussing the different people who may have bought Harry the Firebolt, their suggestions becoming more and more improbable. Harry drew the line at Crookshanks, and they went down the stairs to the common room to see Hermione.

Christmas dinner was a spectacular affair. The Great Hall had been decked out with its usual twelve Christmas trees, garlands of holly, mistletoe (Harry, Ron and Hermione were sure to avoid this, though), and glowing, warm candles to illuminate the chamber. There were so few people staying for dinner that there was only one, large table, and Dumbledore, flanked by Watson and Anderson on opposite sides, was already seated with a few other teachers when they arrived. Professor Watson was gazing thoughtfully up at a sprig of mistletoe that had been hung a few feet away from his chair, and wearing a blue and red Christmas jumper with a pattern around the neck and shoulders.

"Crackers!" exclaimed Dumbledore cheerfully, offering the end of one to Anderson, who rolled his eyes noticeably before giving a small tug. A stuffed animal appeared—a white ferret. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Dumbledore and Watson all burst out laughing. Anderson scowled with venom, and Professor Watson looked like he was trying to restrain himself but encountering much difficulty.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione pulled a few crackers together, ending up with a few pairs of fluffy socks, a bag of unpoppable balloons, a large sugar quill, and potion to cure hiccups. The food arrived soon, and they dug in to the amazing feast that had been sent up from the kitchens. Professor Dumbledore did the most to stimulate conversation, between the teachers and students, and then just between the teachers when many of the students broke off into smaller conversations. Professor Watson looked tired, but happy, and when Harry was talking to him with the others, he felt like the man became more and more comfortable as the meal wore on.

Feeling very full and very content, Harry stood up from the table more than an hour later, ready to head back up to the common room with Ron and Hermione. He was hoping to take a ride on his new Firebolt before it got dark. He had filled Hermione in on it earlier, but she hadn't seemed very excited. Harry hadn't though much of it though, Hermione wasn't very into Quidditch.

"Ready?" asked Harry. A few other students had left already, and Anderson had split as soon as he could.

"You two go on ahead, I want to ask Professor McGonagall something," said Hermione.

Harry wondered why she hadn't just asked McGonagall earlier, they'd been talking before, but he shrugged it off. "Okay. See you in a bit." He then jumped back from Ron with a start—they had been dangerously close to being caught under the mistletoe together.

Back in the common room, Harry brought down his Firebolt to admire it with Ron. "Should we wait for Hermione before heading out?" he asked.

"Probably," said Ron. "She won't know where we've gone otherwise. It won't take her long, though, will it?"

Harry shrugged. The portrait hole was opening, though. Hermione was clambering in, followed by Professor McGonagall.

"Is this the broomstick you've been sent?" asked Professor McGonagall briskly.

"Yes," said Harry, trying not to hold it protectively to his chest.

"May I?" she asked. Harry didn't think he had much choice, and carefully handed it over to her. Hermione was looking around the common room for something, apparently—she was refusing to meet Harry's eyes.

Professor McGonagall made little "hm"ing sounds as she inspected the broom, and Harry looked at her nervously. And then, finally, she looked up at him and said "I'm afraid I'm going to have to confiscate this, Potter."

"What?" said Harry. "But it's not against any rules, is it?"

"Of course not," said answered. "But as it was sent to you with no note, I'm going to have to check it for jinxes before you can have it, for your own safety."

Harry swallowed. "How will you do that?"

"Professor Flitwick and I will strip it down."

"Strip it down?" repeated Harry weakly.

"Yes. I'll inform you when we have finished." And with that, she turned on her heel and exited the common room. Harry just stared after her and his lost Firebolt.

Ron, however, turned on Hermione. "Hermione! Why did you have to go tell McGonagall like that? They don't strip down everything that enters the school!"

Hermione's face was flushed. "Because I think it needs to be checked!"

"_Why?"_ demanded Ron.

"Because I think Sherlock Holmes may have sent Harry that broom!"


	11. The Patronus

Chapter Eleven: The Patronus 

Harry held his wand loosely by his side, nerves gathering in his stomach, though he wished he could just push them away. He and Professor Watson were standing in the empty History of Magic classroom on a Thursday evening, Watson standing between a large packing trunk he had levitated onto Professor Binns's desk and Harry.

"The charm we're going to be working with is called a patronus, Harry," said Watson. "It's very advanced magic, and I don't want you to be discouraged, but you just have to understand that it's not going to come easily. If you do manage to master it that won't be for weeks, if not months."

Something inside of Harry deflated just a little bit, but he nodded. He hadn't expected whatever they'd be doing to fight dementors to be easy, of course, but he also hadn't expected a project lasting months.

"A patronus can be indistinct or take the form of an animal, and there is some overlap between the types of animals, but everyone's patronus is different."

"Sort of like an animagus?" asked Harry.

"Yeah, like that," said Watson. "Usually a wizard who can conjure a patronus and transform into an animal will have the same animal for both, but it doesn't always work that way, sometimes they're different."

"Can I choose my patronus?"

Watson smiled. "No, unfortunately. Your patronus is reflective of your personality, emotions and traits…sometimes someone's patronus will change, maybe because of an important change in them themself or an influential event in their life, but that doesn't happen very often."

"What's your patronus, sir?" asked Harry. He had merely been curious, but once he asked it, he felt that might have been too personal a question.

Watson looked at Harry with a slight smile on his lips, as if thinking, and then said "Here, let me show you." He raised his wand, closed his eyes briefly, and then said "_Expecto Patronum_."

There was a small whoosh of silver out of the end of his wand, and then the silver bands and strands formed a hedgehog, that brushed its small paws behind its ears as if to clean itself and then began to roam about the air, Watson watching it and directing its movements with his wand, the light reflecting off his eyes. Harry jumped back out of its way and watched it closely, fascinated. After a few moments, Watson lowered his wand and let the patronus fade away.

Harry was getting excited. "How did you do that?"

"First, you must think of a very strong, very happy memory," said Watson. "Sometimes a thought will do too, but a memory is always best because you're able to visualize it and feel it much better, since you've actually experienced it. This is what can make using a patronus against dementors so hard; even if you're able to learn to do the spell, no small feat, you have to bring up a strong, happy memory when faced with a dementor and let it fill you, the very thing the dementors are trying to stop from happening."

"A happy memory," said Harry quietly. He thought back, images of Ron and Hermione and Hogwarts and Quidditch playing through his mind.

"Why don't you pick one now," suggested Watson.

Harry thought back, and finally decided on when he had first won a Quidditch match for Gryffindor.

"Got it?" asked Watson.

Harry nodded, gripping his wand.

"And now the spell. You say, very clearly, _Expecto Patronum_," he said.

"Okay," said Harry. "_Expecto Patronum. Expecto Patronum. Expecto Patronum. _Look!" A sort of silvery gas had shot out of the end of Harry's wand, but in his excitement he lost focus and it was gone just as quickly.

"Good!" said Watson happily. "Want to try a few more times?"

Harry did so, and to his delight, realized that he could create a good bit more of the silver vapor, though nothing that resembled any sort of animal.

Watson seemed to know what he was expecting. "You can't think it will take the form of an animal yet, Harry. This is amazing, that you've learned to create an incorporeal patronus this easily."

Harry didn't know what incorporeal meant, but he thought he could figure it out. "What's in the trunk?"

"I found a boggart for you to practice on. Obviously we can't use a real dementor, but this should take the shape of one when it sees you, so it'll do just as well as the real thing and be a lot less dangerous. Do you want to have a go on it now?"

Harry nodded, and Watson turned to unlock the trunk. "Ready? One, two, three."

On three he released the latch, and a large, black dementor rose out of the trunk, its length far more than the box would have been able to accommodate. Curving its body in the air, it leaned over Harry, who took several steps backward. "_Expecto Patronum!_" he shouted. "_Expecto Patronum! EXPECTO PATRONUM!_" but Harry wasn't thinking of his Quidditch memory, the sight of a dementor had driven it from his mind, and soon his mother's screaming was beginning to fill his mind. Then he began to hear a man's voice—that must be his father. He was telling her to run, to take Harry and leave—

"_Harry!_ Come on Harry, wake up," said Professor Watson. He was leaning over him, the dementor out of sight, and offered a hand to help him off the floor where he seemed to have fallen.

"Thanks," said Harry, fixing his glasses. He saw the trunk on the desk was again bolted. "Did I…did I pass out again?"

Professor Watson nodded with a kind expression on his face, and pulled something out of his robes. "Here, you should eat this," he said, offering it to Harry, who saw it was a chocolate frog.

Harry took the chocolate, but didn't start to open it.

"You shouldn't feel bad, Harry, I told you it was difficult," said Watson. "Perhaps you'll need a stronger memory?"

"Maybe I just need to keep the memory in mind the whole time," said Harry, ruffling the back of his hair.

Watson smiled. "That would help too. Eat the chocolate and take a minute."

Harry did as he told, but a disturbing thought was coming to him. He didn't _want_ to hear his mother like that, did he? It had been years since he had heard his parents' voices, he had only been a year old. But this was a horrible way to hear them….

"I heard my dad that time," said Harry quietly, not really thinking about why he was voicing this out loud to Professor Watson.

"You heard Greg?" asked Watson. Harry was turned slightly away from him, but out of the corner of his eye it was apparent that his teacher had gone still.

"Yeah," he answered, voice shaky. "He was going to try and hold off Voldemort…."

Watson stepped closer. He looked stricken, and as Harry turned his head to look more carefully at the man, the purple circles beneath his eyes seemed to look even darker than usual, his hair a tinge grayer. "Are you alright, Harry?" he asked softly, voice catching slightly.

"Yeah, I'm fine," said Harry, his own voice cracking a little. He smiled in a way that probably didn't show much happiness, and shook out his arms a little. "Can I go again?"

Professor Watson looked uncertain. "I don't know if that's a good idea right now, Harry. You've made tremendous progress already, and we can continue another time."

Harry realized that in this case he probably wasn't going to be able to argue and convince him otherwise. Watson produced a little more chocolate for him to eat, and then Harry thanked him and left.

After a few more sessions, Harry's patronus hadn't improved much. He was finding it difficult to ignore his parents' voices whenever they arose, and the silvery mist had yet to take the form of any animal. Watson kept telling him not to be discouraged, but Harry was finding this increasingly difficult. Walking alone down the stone hallways one night after Quidditch practice he told himself that if he was to have any chance of overcoming his block, he had to get over his secret desire to hear his parents again.

"They're dead," he told himself firmly. "And no spell can reawaken the dead." He had witnessed other ways of seeing those he had lost again, the Mirror of Erised, and now the memories the dementors dragged out of him, but this was not the way to remember them. _They deserve better, _thought Harry.

Even if he wasn't yet able to conquer dementors, something did happen that greatly increased Harry's chances of performing well in the next Quidditch match; Professor McGonagall returned his Firebolt.

"Wait—I can have it back?" asked Harry, his brow crunching.

"You can have it back," said Professor McGonagall. If Harry hadn't known better, he might have said she wanted to smile. "It's jinx-free, amazingly. Perhaps we were a bit cynical. Now, you better get out there and start practicing on it, I want a win against Ravenclaw, you hear?"

"Yes, Professor," said Harry, grinning. When he arrived back in the common room, he was met by a very eager Ron ("You got it back!") and some also very eager fellow Gyffindors who happened to be there. Soon Harry was mobbed.

"Look, everyone, can you please let me get through?" pleaded Harry as politely as he could after several minutes of letting people pass it around and telling them that he didn't _know_ what it was like because they hadn't given him a chance to ride it yet ("Then what are you doing up here?" asked one boy).

When Harry had finally extricated himself from his broom's herd of admirers, he and Ron headed out to the pitch to try it out. It was incredible, Harry thought, seeming to know what he wanted it to do next just as soon as he did. He zoomed around and around the pitch, and then practiced a few dives and the sloth-grip roll. Ron watched from below, cheering and whooping as he watched Harry put the broom though its paces until Harry dismounted and let him have a turn. It was only when they had reentered the castle and saw everyone leaving the Great Hall that Ron realized they'd skipped dinner.

A very familiar bushy head of hair was disappearing into the crowd of students, bent forward as if carrying a bag full of books. "Look, it's Hermione," said Harry. "We should go tell her I got the Firebolt back. And I want to apologize." He felt that he and Ron had been a bit harsh with her after the Firebolt was taken away.

Ron looked uncomfortable. "Alright. I'll take the Firebolt up first, shall I?"

Harry eyed him, fairly certain his friend was trying to delay making up with Hermione. "You don't have anything to argue with her over anymore, though, do you?"

"Harry, I'm just talking about taking up the Firebolt so it doesn't get messed up first."

"Alright. I think she's heading—"

"To the library," they both said at once. Harry smiled. "Yeah, that's where we'll be."

Several minutes later, Harry had found Hermione at a table in the library. She couldn't have gotten there much sooner than he had, but she had already covered the table in a thick sediment of notes, books, and an essay she was frantically scribbling onto the end of.

"Hey," said Harry, approaching her. Hermione looked up, violet circling her eyes like Watson's. "Can I sit down?" She nodded, and after a minute, he said "Look, Hermione, I'm sorry if I was rude to you about the Firebolt, you know, giving you the cold shoulder. I got it back now, and it's safe."

"But there _might_ have been something wrong with it," she insisted.

"I know, you were just looking out for me. So I'm sorry, okay?"

Hermione bit her lip. "Okay. I guess I'm sorry, too, Harry."

"It's fine. How're you doing all of this, Hermione? You did go to dinner, right?"

"Yes, but only for a minute, I really haven't the time for much more," she was starting to sound panicked.

"Maybe you should drop one of your subjects," suggested Harry.

"Oh no, I couldn't! I'm learning so much, really, Harry—"

"Yeah, but are you sleeping? I mean, no offense, but you don't want to end up looking as tired and forlorn as Watson, do you?"

It was right about then that Ron burst in through the archway to the library. "Hermione!" he yelled, coming towards them. Hermione looked up in alarm, and Harry followed suit.

"LOOK! Look what I found on my sheets!" he exploded, brandishing something they couldn't see. "Cat hairs! From that mangy animal of yours! And next to it? BLOOD!"

Hermione looked too startled to say anything, but it wouldn't have mattered because Madam Pince, the librarian was swooping down on them like a wraith.

"How dare you disturb the studious caverns of this chamber!" she shrieked, black-robed arms raising around her as if to ward them off in some ancient sorceress's ritual they hadn't been taught. "OUT! OUT!"

They didn't need telling a third time.


	12. Seeking and Sneaking

Chapter Twelve: Seeking and Sneaking

The morning of the much-anticipated Quidditch match against Ravenclaw, Harry had knots in his stomach for more than one reason. Not only was he worried about the outcome of the match, but he felt that he needed to perform well beyond his normal standard to redeem himself from his humiliating fall from last time. As if this wasn't enough, Ron and Hermione's fighting had taken a turn for the worst.

Scabbers was gone, and Ron was convinced that Crookshanks had eaten him. Harry could understand that Ron was upset about Scabbers, but he still wished that he could find it somewhere in his heart to forgive Hermione. Harry realized she couldn't control Crookshanks, but it did nettle him that Hermione had tried to suggest her cat hadn't killed Ron's rat. He may not be a detective, but Harry was pretty sure that Ron was right in assuming Crookshanks had done it. Still, he found it difficult to bridge the divide between his two friends and try to get them to make up...and hadn't _they_ been the ones trying to convince _him_ to let them stick together just a little while ago, when they were all talking about Sherlock Holmes?

There were the benefits of the Firebolt, however, and when Harry made it down to breakfast, the whole team seemed to be basking in the glory of his broomstick.

"Okay, Harry," said Wood, sitting down across from him and rubbing his hands together. Angelina tried to push a plate of eggs in front of him, but Wood merely passed them to his left towards the Weasley twins, seemingly oblivious. Angelina rolled her eyes, and Wood fixed Harry with a focused stare. "Ravenclaw's seeker, Cho Chang, got hit with something nasty the other day in Transfiguration and got turned into some sort of fox/badger combination. Unfortunately, Professor Hooper got her all sorted out, and she'll be playing for them as normal," Wood paused to scowl his disapproval of Cho Chang regaining her human form. "She's got the right build for a seeker, different from Diggory, but whatever broom she has'll be nothing compared to the Firebolt!" His face lit up just as quickly as it had fallen a moment before. "So, just remember to keep moving, and cut around her if you need to. Or just knock her off," he added as an afterthought. "Catching the snitch comes first!"

"Got it, Wood," said Harry, taking another piece of toast. Maybe, maybe if he caught the snitch quick enough or they won by a high margin of points, Ron and Hermione would forgive each other in the euphoria following the match. Fred and George would probably throw a big party, maybe it could work. Harry would have to make it so with a victory.

When they stepped out onto the field, the sun could not have been shining brighter and the sky couldn't have contained fewer clouds. There was only a bit of a slight breeze occasionally, and Harry gripped the handle of his Firebolt bracingly. He was ready.

"Okay, team," said Wood. "Remember what we talked about in practice: Chasers, you need to be passing regularly, and don't give them a chance to intercept. If things look risky, try that sloth grip roll we've been working on. Beaters, you need—"

"We _know_, Oliver," groaned George. "Be Beaters. Do things that Beaters do. You don't have to tell us what our job is."

Wood looked like he may give a snappy remark back, but Madam Hooch blew her whistle to call the teams to attention. "Mount up!" She called.

Harry did as instructed, taking his place in their starting formation.

"Three…two…one…go!"

Harry kicked off hard, and soon he was rising smoothly above the pitch, circling around. Within a few moments, Cho Chang had appeared near him. She had long black hair she'd pulled back in a ponytail, but it flashed in the sunlight and for a moment Harry thought it was the snitch. He lunged forward, but half a second later had realized his mistake and had to cut upwards sharply to avoid crashing into Cho. Feeling extremely foolish, Harry felt his cheeks warm and Cho looked at him in puzzlement.

Lee Jordan had begun to announce the other players' progress below. "And that's Gryffindor in possession, Alicia Spinnet passes to Katie Bell, who passes back to Spinnet, swerves a bludger by Ravenclaw beater Duncan Inglebee. Ooh, that…that was actually quite well done. Spinnet goes to goal, she's going to make a shot—and she's dropped it! Wait, dropped it to Angelina Johnson who was beneath her, JOHNSON SCORES! I don't know if I've seen it done like that before, very clever! Ravenclaw in possession, Captain Roger Davies is taking it across the pitch, Fred Weasley aims a bludger at him—and a hit, Davies drops the Quaffle—"

The commentary kept going, but Harry was trying not to pay attention as he searched for the Snitch. Cho had started an annoying practice of marking him very closely. She seemed to think that she might be able to block or overtake him if he spotted the Snitch. Though she was doing a very good job of blocking him, much to Harry's chagrin, he didn't think she'd have a chance of overtaking him in a chase, not when he was riding a new Firebolt.

Harry started to circle around and change levels often, trying to keep Cho off him by at least a few meters as he looked around for the Snitch. It was several minutes later, when Gryffindor had scored a few more times, when he first saw it. Harry was already starting to feel his adrenaline pumping as he monitored the score, knowing it was good Gryffindor was pulling in the lead and that they needed to win this match well. When the glint of gold became visible, Harry careened forward in its direction, not bothering to try and hide his movements or fake out Cho. He zoomed towards the Snitch, which was hovering about halfway across the pitch from them, leaning forward. His hair was swept back from his face in the rush created by his broom, and he extended his arm to take it, when Cho managed to cut in front of him. She wasn't even going for the ball, just trying to block his path—Harry reacted impulsively and swerved away from her, starting a dive. When he had pulled back up again, Lee was yelling to the crowd about the play, and Wood was shouting from the nearby goal hoops: "HARRY! Just go through her, knock her off it you have to!"

"WOOD!" Yelled Professor McGonagall.

"Sorry, Professor!" yelled Wood, though Harry was sure he didn't rescind his advice at all.

Harry soared around the pitch some more, keeping a faster pace than he normally would have to make things more difficult for Cho. He could tell that she was a very good flyer, but if she had to constantly keep up a quick speed, accelerating to chase for the Snitch might be a challenge for her. The score was now 70-20 to Gryffindor, and Harry was beginning to feel like he should end the game quickly. He didn't want Ravenclaw to score any more, even though the Gryffindor Chasers and Beaters were doing an excellent job.

The Snitch appeared again, this time fluttering near the sand on the ground beneath them—Harry dived. Grinning, he accelerated, pushing the broom to go faster and faster. Dives were his specialty, he could do this, Cho must be somewhere far behind him. He was closing in, the Snitch had moved a little, but he adjusted, and—where those _dementors? _Without pausing at all, Harry thrust his hand into his robes and grabbed his wand. He was already so caught up in the thrill of the match that he barely even thought about a happy memory, he just directed his wand at the black shape and yelled "_Expecto Patronum!"_

Something great and silvery whooshed out of the end of his wand, and Harry cast around his gaze for the Snitch. It hadn't gotten far, and Harry dived again, and soon his hand was zeroing in on the suspended golden ball.

"YES!" Harry shouted as his fingers clamped around the Snitch's quivering form. He pulled out of his dive gracefully, and hit the ground lightly, raising the Snitch above his head in his closed fist.

"Well done, Harry!" screamed Wood as he too reached the ground. He dismounted and started to pound Harry on the back vigorously. The rest of the team soon joined him, gathering around Harry and congratulating each other. They had won!

"And the match goes to GRYFFINDOR, with 220 points to Ravenclaw's 20! That was a fairly short game, I think we can all agree, and a spectacular job done by the Gryffindor Chasers and SEEKER!" called Lee from his box.

"Were there dementors?" asked Harry, once some of the cheering around him had calmed done and his own heart did likewise.

"Erm…no," said George, who was standing next to him with Fred.

"But they were some rather slimy little creatures, I'll give you that," said Fred, pointing.

Harry craned his neck to see Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle attempting to extricate themselves from a large quantity of black material while being thoroughly reprimanded by a livid Professor McGonagall.

"Harry!" said a voice, and Harry turned again to see Ron and Hermione running towards him together.

"Hey!" Harry yelled back. It took him a moment to realize why he was feeling even more excited than he had a few moments ago when he won the match—it was that his friends were running towards him together, both smiling and apparently not arguing at all. "We did it!"

"Was that your Patronus, Harry?" asked Hermione excitedly.

"Yeah, I guess so!"

"It was amazing!" she squealed. "I can't believe it! You got it, you really did!"

"Well done, mate!" said Ron. "Look at Malfoy! He's going to be in so much trouble…."

Harry grinned. Professor McGonagall was now complaining loudly that Professor Anderson wasn't here at the match, and that she was going to make sure she explained everything to him and he dealt with his three Slytherin students accordingly.

"HOUSE PARTY!" Yelled Fred and George, and with even more cheering, a great wave of Gryffindors surged from the pitch and the stands.

"Let's go!" said Ron enthusiastically, and the three of them set off together.

"Maybe we should wait a few moments," shouted Harry over the noise of the crowd once they had reached the Great Hall. "We don't want to get stampeded."

"True," said Ron.

After letting most of the crowd pass, the three of them started up the marble stair cases. "Let's take a short cut," said Harry, who had now learned even more about the castle than he knew before, thanks to the Map of Private Eyes.

He led them to a tapestry depicting a lake full of otters, and then pulled it back to reveal a passageway through the stone wall. Ducking under the fabric, they crossed to the other side, where they came out near Professor McGonagall's office. Professor Anderson's voice was clearly audible from inside, and wishing to avoid face-to-face confrontation with his least favorite teacher, Harry quickly made "Sh!"ing gestures to his friends and let the other tapestry on the other side drop to hide them. Slipping a finger between the tapestry and the wall, Harry created a small window of sight to watch what was going on and wait for the coast to be clear.

A moment later, Anderson came out of the office and shut the door behind him. Then he paused for a moment, as if in deep thought. Suddenly, he looked up at the ceiling and grinned, whispering "Yes!" and practically skipped down the corridor and out of sight.

Alarmed, Harry lifted the tapestry and stepped out of the passageway with his friends. "What was that all about?"

"Dunno," said Ron. "But if it's making Anderson happy, it can't be good, can it?"

Hermione bit her lip. "You don't think Professor Watson's in trouble? We know Anderson hates him, he didn't just think of some way to hurt him, did he?"

"I don't know," said Harry uncertainly. "Look, let's follow him."

"What?" asked Hermione in surprise.

"Come on, we need to know what he's up to, and we're going to lose him if we stay here much longer," said Harry, rushing down the hallway.

"Wait, no we don't!" said Hermione.

"I'm with Harry. Come on, Hermione!" said Ron.

Apparently wanting to be included, and happy at least that Ron was inviting her to do something, Hermione started down the corridor with them. "Just so you know, I do not approve," she said as she bent her head to start running with them.

"Noted!" Harry said.

They barely made it to the next intersection of hallways in time to see the hem of Anderson's robes disappearing in the direction of the Hospital Tower. As quietly as they could, they followed, and soon Anderson had led them to the entrance to the Hospital Wing.

"Molly!" he called, pushing open the door. "Molly, I have to talk to you! You were right all along, Sherlock is innocent!"

Hermione gasped. Harry stared. Ron's mouth fell open.

"Keep your voice down!" said Professor Hooper frantically, appearing near him.

"Sorry," said Anderson awkwardly.

"I'm with students right now, there are always accidents at a Quidditch match," hissed Professor Hooper nervously. "Can we talk later?"

"

Okay. Can you come to my office at eight?"

Professor Hooper bit her lip. "I think I'll be free then."

"Alright, thanks, Molly," said Anderson. He turned to leave, and Harry hastily ducked behind a stone pillar, dragging Hermione and Ron back too by their robes.

Once Anderson was a safe distance away, Ron asked "What's he on about?"

"I don't know," said Hermione.

Harry stared at the door. Wasn't it accepted throughout the Wizarding World that Sherlock Holmes was a guilty murderer? Why would Anderson think he's innocent?

"We have to figure out what he's talking about," said Harry. "And I'm not about to ask him."

"We could ask Professor Hooper…," said Hermione uncertainly.

"No, we can't do that, look how nervous she seemed about talking to Anderson, it'll just seem suspicious, and even Hermione isn't taking one of her classes." said Ron.

"What _can_ we do?" Hermione asked.

"I have half an idea," said Harry. "But you're not going to like it," he added, looking at Hermione.

"Yeah?" asked Ron.

"We get down to Anderson's office at eight and try and spy on them then."

"Haaarrrrrryyy," Hermione groaned. "That is so risky! And we'd be eavesdropping on two teachers' private conversation, too!"

"Hermione," said Ron seriously. "Anderson is not a saint. We all know he hated Harry's parents, what if he's going to try and help Holmes get to Harry and hurt him?"

That seemed like a long shot to Harry, and he was about to say so when Hermione cut in.

"I'm sure that if he said anything about anything like that to Professor Hooper, she would tell Professor Dumbledore. And We're not going to hear anything he doesn't tell her by listening in on their conversation."

"So you just want to leave everything up to Professor Hooper?" asked Ron.

"Look, Hermione, I don't think it's anything serious, but I still want to hear what this is about. What if Anderson knows something about Sherlock Holmes that we don't, something I should know? You have to admit, they didn't even tell me he was after me for months into the school year, I heard it before from Mr. Weasley, and he isn't here to give me information now."

At this suggestion, Hermione relented. "Okay. But only because it could have to do with you, Harry, not because I think this is a foolproof plan."

"We'll be okay," said Harry. "We can take the invisibility cloak and the Map of Private Eyes." 

The party was in full swing when they got back to the common room, which was good news, because the room was loud and full of happy people eating and making lots of noise, ideal conditions for when you don't want your comings and goings to be noticed. Fred and George had managed to procure a large amount of food from the kitchens, as well as heaps of sweets from Honeyduke's. Harry found it hard to believe they'd bought it all at the last Hogsmeade visit; it was more likely that they'd used one of the secret passageways to get out of school and back since the game.

Just like every other time Gryffindor won a game, almost the entire house managed to keep partying for hours after the match had ended. Harry, Ron and Hermione lingered around and talked together, Harry happy to see his two friends make up lost time from when they hadn't been talking, and they played each other, Dean, Seamus, and Neville in Wizard's Chess. Hermione was still abysmal, but she was at least a match for Neville. Fred, George, and Lee Jordan led loud sing-a-longs, and Harry learned that a large group of Gryffindors was not the best ensemble for a good rendition of the school song, "Werewolves of London," "I am the Walrus," or anything, really. Then, of course, Peeves stopped by to pay a visit, and the common room got even louder and crazier as everyone attempted to avoid getting dive-bombed by him with color-changing ink. Ron got a large amount of it in his hair, and his swearing was only covered up by Harry's laughter, which was probably a good thing, because Hermione might not have helped him get it out if she'd heard exactly what he'd called Peeves.

Hours later, the party was still going on, and Professor McGonagall came in to tell them it was time to quiet down.

"Come on, Professor, it's not even seven-thirty!" said Lee jovially.

"Yes, but you do realize it's been about nine hours since the game ended, don't you?" she replied. "Enough is enough! And lights out at ten."

"What?!" asked Fred.

"You heard me, Mr. Weasley!" said Professor McGonagall, exiting through the portrait hole.

No one obliged. The noise and games continued to rage on, with people starting to charm fireworks to see how long they could last. This proved to be an excellent time to leave the common room. No one noticed Harry, Ron and Hermione slip out in the slightest.

The hallways were a great deal less noisy. Harry activated the Map of Private Eyes by saying "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good" and tapping it with his wand, and the burgundy ink spread out all across the pages to reveal every part of Hogwarts in extreme detail, with all of its inhabitants marked by small dots.

"Alright," Harry said. "Here's Anderson…he's already waiting in his office. Looks like he's pacing or something."

"And there's Professor Hooper," said Ron, pointing. "Still in the Hospital Wing. Should we just go down to the dungeons, then?"

Harry nodded.

"Do we need to cloak?" asked Hermione.

"Not yet," said Harry shaking his head. "We're actually _supposed_ to be eating dinner around now, so we're fine being out in the school."

They made their way down to the dungeons, watching Professor Hooper leave the Hospital Wing and start to follow their tracks, though she was several floors behind them.

"What're they going to talk about?" asked Ron.

"I don't know," said Hermione. "But didn't Professor Anderson say that Professor Hooper thought Sherlock Holmes was innocent, too?"

"Yeah," said Harry. "He said that she was 'right all along'…why would people think he's innocent? Remember all that stuff we heard Mycroft Holmes say about him?"

"You mean that he was your parents' secret keeper, and he turned them in?" said Ron. Harry nodded. "Yeah…I don't know. Even if he didn't kill all those people, he must still be guilty of that. And I'd reckon you'd have to be pretty screwed up to turn in some of your only friends to You-Know-Who, so who's to say he wouldn't be willing to kill a bunch of other people in a street, too? He seems like a bloody psychopath."

"Great, Ron," said Harry.

"What?"

"It's just that you're not really helping me feel great about this guy supposedly being out to get me," answered Harry.

"But you're not scared, are you, Harry?" asked Hermione.

"Not really," said Harry, shrugging. "Not sure why, though. Probably because I didn't grow up in the Wizarding World, you know? Everyone else seems to have been raised to be terrified of him, but I wasn't."

They were now standing right outside Anderson's office. "We should probably get behind that pillar there," said Ron.

"I'm afraid that's it's too late for that," said a voice. They all turned slowly, and saw Professor Waston walking towards them, looking very grim.

"Oh, hello, Professor," said Hermione rather weakly.

Watson regarded them stonily for a minute, then held out his hand. "The Map, please, Harry," he said.

"How do you know—" began Harry.

"That it's a map? You're not really in a position to ask me that right now, Harry," said Watson, his hand outstretched. Harry's heart sank. Watson was normally not a strict teacher at all, but he certainly was not pleased now. And Harry could imagine what it looked like, the three of them trying to hide outside a teacher's office in the dungeons, a place that no Gryffindors would normally be on a Saturday. It crossed his mind that he should try to wipe the Map, but Watson was staring straight at him and he knew it would be obvious what he was trying to do. Instead, he held it out to Watson wordlessly, who took it.

"Harry, I can not _begin_ to tell you how disappointed I am in you," said Watson, looking right at him and making eye contact. "Not only does it look like you three are trying to spy on Professor Anderson, but I am simply _astounded _that you have found this map and not turned it in!"

Harry was expecting to be told off for being in the dungeons outside Anderson's office, but wasn't expecting Watson to be so angry about the Map. Of course, it was a perfect magical object for rule-breaking, but Watson seemed to think it was more.

"Didn't it ever occur to you that if Sherlock Holmes had this map, it would be child's play for him to get to you? It would lead him straight to you, and is therefore an extremely dangerous object for you to have lying around!"

Professor Anderson, drawn by the sound of Professor Watson's raised voice, opened his door to stick his head out.

"Is there a problem?" he asked.

"No, everything's fine, Phillip, I'll be in in a minute," said Watson, hardly glancing away from the three of them. All of them were staring at the floor now, sure they shouldn't say anything but quiet "yes, sir"s in reply.

"Now, I'm going to have to take thirty points from Gryffindor," continued Professor Watson, "and I want to be clear with you three that what you have done was abysmally stupid."

"Yes, Professor," said Harry in a small voice. Ron and Hermione were nodding.

To Harry's further humiliation, Professor Hooper rounded the corner then, joining Anderson in being an onlooker. She stopped and stood a few paces away quietly, clearly getting the picture of what was going on.

"Well. You'd better be getting back to Gryffindor Tower. Or do I need to escort you there?" Watson asked, not patiently at all.

"No, sir," said Harry, barely meeting his eyes.

"Alright. Off you go, then."

The trio trudged away, not looking at Professor Hooper as they passed her. It wasn't until they were about to start climbing the staircase that led out of the dungeons that Harry cast a glance backward to see all three teachers entering Anderson's office. With the Map of Private Eyes in hand, Professor Watson was looking down at it, his shoulders hunched in slightly. He looked...sad.

Not until they had reached the main chamber of marble staircases did Harry, Ron and Hermione talk.

"At least he didn't see the invisibility cloak," said Ron grimly. "I was about to suggest we put it on when he came up."

"Yeah, that's one good thing, at least," said Harry. He looked sideways at Hermione, who still looked very uncomfortable, just like he was feeling. He was thankful, very thankful, that she had the grace not to say "I told you so," for the second time in a very short period of time, it seemed. "I guess you were right about that, Hermione."

She shrugged. "It's okay. At least we did it together."

Harry gave a sad smile. "Always. Anyway, I reckon we still have a lot to talk about...why was Watson going in the see them, too? I suppose I should have seen him coming on the Map, but I was so focused on watching Anderson and Hooper."

"Yeah, me too," said Ron. "But didn't you say something about Watson and Hooper talking to each other when you were in the Hospital Wing after the last Quidditch match? And remember what Mycroft Holmes said about them being friends."

_With my parents _added Harry in his mind. "Yeah, I do," said Harry. "Apparently they and Sherlock Holmes were friends. But he didn't say anything about Anderson, did he?"

"No," said Hermione, frowning. "But if Anderson thinks Holmes is innocent, and remember what he acted like, it was as if he'd just worked something out, then that would concern Professor Watson just as much, right? So he probably invited him, too."

"Of course. We should have thought of that and been watching him on the Map, too," said Harry, shaking his head as they stepped onto the staircase that had just docked at their ledge.

"Were Professor Watson and Professor Hooper saying anything about Holmes that time in the Hospital Wing, Harry?" Hermione inquired.

"They were definitely talking about someone, someone they both used to know." said Harry. Then something occurred to him that he'd completely forgot about since that day. "Oh! And they were talking about something that happened _twelve years ago_! So they probably were talking about Holmes, it would fit."

"And what were they saying, again?" asked Ron.

"They were talking about how they missed him, and it was hard for them," said Harry, thinking back. "So I suppose they both think he's innocent. That's what Anderson said Professor Hooper thought. I just wouldn't think that they'd talk to Anderson about it, you know?"

"Hmm," said Hermione. "I'm starting to realize just how much we've eavesdropped on our teachers this year, sneaking around."

"Well, we haven't had a mystery this year, so we have to investigate something," said Harry fairly.

"What?" asked Hermione, giving questioning smile, almost laughing.

"Think about it," said Ron reasonably. "First year there was all that stuff about Nicolas Flamel and the Sorcerer's Stone. Then second year we had to figure out who was petrifying all those people."

"So this year, when there isn't anything suspicious happening at Hogwarts, we have to try and investigate the suspicious murderer whose on the loose outside of school from the inside."

When they arrived on the seventh floor and Sir Cadogan admitted them to the common room, the seemingly endless party had finally subsided and been vanquished—a combination of Professor McGonagall and Percy Weasley was the conqueror, now herding students up to their dormitories.

"Where have you three been?" asked Percy when he saw them enter. "Nevermind, off to bed!"

Thankful that they had at least avoided the attention of Professor McGonagall, who was otherwise occupied, they split up and made their way to their respective dormitories, waving as they parted.

When Harry and Ron entered the third year boys' room, Harry changed into his pajamas with everyone else and laid down on his four-poster bed, sighing. So much had happened in one day, and he was starting to learn and wonder so much about the teachers at Hogwarts. Even though Dumbledore had made some questionable calls in hiring teachers in the past, Harry was certain that Professor Watson and Professor Hooper would never harm him. Anderson…well, he was a different matter.

But was there a chance that Sherlock Holmes was innocent? Was it possible that the whole Wizarding World had been wrong about him, and that he really hadn't betrayed Harry's parents, but was really just misunderstood? Harry didn't know, ad he still felt himself hating the man _so much_. He _wished_, wished more than anything, that he could talk to his parents about everything that had happened to him, and everything that had happened to them…he really didn't know much about them, and standing in front of the Mirror of Erised could only show him so much. He wanted to be able to know more about their lives, and what they had done at Hogwarts, and who their friends had been and what they had been like…and he wanted to tell them about all the things he had faced, and ask advice about the thing we all had to face, and him while trying to learn and sort out so much more, besides—growing up.

"AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHH!" yelled a voice, and Harry sat upward quickly in bed, jolted from his reclining position. He wasn't sure if he'd been asleep or not, he had so much he couldn't get off his mind.

"SHUT! UP!" yelled another voice, one Harry didn't recognize, and then a moment later the heavy wood dormitory door slammed shut.

"What's going on?" asked Dean from across the room. It had been Ron who had yelled, sweating and his red hair sticking up. He looked completely shocked.

"Sherlo…Sherlock Holmes! I woke up, and he was standing over me! With a knife!" panted Ron frantically.

"What?" asked Harry, flabbergasted.

"Sherlock Holmes! With a knife! Look, he slashed the curtains! Then he yelled and left!" Ron was struggling around in his covers in agitation, pointing at the curtains to his four-poster bed, which were indeed slashed, and the door of the dormitory.

Harry didn't know what was going to happen next, if Sherlock Holmes was in the castle _again_. And he'd been so close to him, just a bed away! Ron was so lucky to have not been hurt.

He stood up out of his bed, putting on his glasses. The curtains looked even more mangled now that he could see them better. "Come on, Ron, we have to go get help."

Dean, Seamus and Neville, all looking just as scared and worried as Harry felt, got out of their beds, and they all rushed down the spiral staircase to the common room.

"Should we go to Professor Dumbledore, or Professor McGonagall?" asked Harry.

"Would we be okay going out in the hallways if he's here?" squeaked Neville.

Lights were coming on upstairs—they'd clearly made a great deal of noise.

"Excellent, are we carrying on, then?" asked George, rubbing his hands together.

"George!" said Ron. "Sherlock Holmes was in our dormitory! He had a knife, and he slashed my curtains!"

"What?" said George, shocked.

"We have to tell a teacher, he has to still be here in the school," said Harry.

"What's going on?" said Angelina. Older students were coming down the staircases now.

"Are you sure you weren't dreaming, Ron?" asked Fred.

"I WAS NOT DREAMING!" shouted Ron. "SHERLOCK HOLMES WAS STANDING OVER MY BED, HOLDING A KNIFE!"

Everyone froze.

"Now, this is just getting ridiculous!" said Professor McGonagall, clambering through the portrait hole. "While I am delighted that Gryffindor won as well—"

"Professor!" gasped Ron, running up to her. "I woke up and Sherlock Holmes was standing over me, holding a knife! He yelled something and ran out of the room!"

Professor McGonagall stopped, staring at him with a crease over her eyes. "Are you quite sure, Weasley?"

Ron was becoming frustrated and impatient with everyone questioning his story. "Ask him!" he yelled madly, pointing at the portrait hole where McGonagall had just answered. "Ask that raving lunatic if he just let someone in and out!"

McGonagall gave Ron one last look, then re-exited the room. They could hear her voice as she talked to Sir Cadogan.

"Sir Cadogan, did you just let a man into Gryffindor common room a few minutes ago?"

"Why certainly, good lady!" said Sir Cadogan, oblivious and unconcerned.

There was a collective gasp from the gathered Gryffindors.

"You _did?_" demanded Professor McGonagall. "And did you let him back out again?"

"Yes, of course! He passed by just moments before you yourself arrived."

Professor McGonagall climbed into the common room, and addressed the house with her face white and her voice carefully controlled. "I will need you all to stay here, together in the common room until further word is sent. Go and fetch your classmates who are still in bed. It would appear that Sherlock Holmes has breached the castle once again."

**Seriously, though. Do Gryffindor parties really last that long? Considering that the Quidditch matches always take place first thing in the morning and then that they seem to keep going until curfew…. Well, Gryffindor would probably be the house that partied the most.**


	13. The Quidditch Final

**I hope you guys aren't annoyed by inconsistent chapter lengths. They just sort of…happen at those lengths. Wow, that reference was not intended.**

Chapter Thirteen: The Quidditch Final

No one slept at all in Gryffindor Tower the rest of the night, and there was little conversation. When morning dawned, however, it became clear that Sherlock Holmes had once again escaped.

"This is the _third time_," said Ron over breakfast, when the teachers were finally certain he was no longer in the castle and allowed the students to come out of their common rooms to eat. "First he breaks out of Azkaban. Then he breaks _in_ to Hogwarts on Halloween and slips out again then, and now he's done it a third time!"

"I'm beginning to question if our teachers are really competent at all when it comes to keeping students safe at this school," said Hermione contemplatively.

Harry had to admit she had a point. "Yeah, just this year one of the most infamous murderers ever (if he isn't innocent like some of our teachers seem to think, and I don't see why he would have broken into where I was sleeping last night if he is) gets in and out of the castle twice, and we have dementors swooping around that made killed me two Quidditch matches ago."

"Then last year there was all that stuff with the Chamber of Secrets," Hermione reminded them. "And first year they brought in a vicious three-headed dog."

"Yeah, and let's not forget the tree that could kill you," said Ron. "Whose bright idea _was_ it to plant the Whomping Willow on a school's grounds?"

They all took a few more bites of their food, and then Harry said in a low voice, "But you don't think…you don't think that some of our teachers could have _let_ Holmes escape?"

"What do you mean?" asked Hermione.

"Well, if Anderson, Professor Watson, _and _Professor Hooper all think he's innocent, you don't think that would mean they wouldn't try as hard to catch him?"

"Rubbish," said Ron through his bacon. "Even if he weren't guilty, they'd still want to talk to him, wouldn't they? He'd need a trial to explain himself, wouldn't he? They'd want to clear his name."

"You don't think…you don't think that the Ministry would just kill him without hearing what he has to say if they catch him?" asked Hermione.

"Nah," said Ron. "They'd have to."

"But what about the dementors? If they catch him first, could they perform the Kiss before he can say anything?"

"The Kiss?" asked Harry, sure he had heard wrong.

"It's a dementor's worst weapon," said Hermione. She shuddered slightly. "It's when…it's when they suck out someone's soul through their mouth."

Harry choked on his food. "They do _what?_"

Hermione was looking grim. "They suck out their soul. And then that person won't actually be dead, not if their body is okay, but they'll just…it's like their empty, like an empty shell."

"Yeah," said Ron gravely. "They won't know who they are or anything. It's sick."

"And we actually employ these creatures to patrol our prison? _What?"_

Hermione nodded, looking upset. "Not everything is great in the Wizarding World. I suppose both it and the Muggle World have their problems."

Harry suddenly didn't feel like eating. After a few moments, he cast the conversation back to what he'd been asking about. "But what about our teachers? You don't think they knew Holmes was going to try and get in last night?"

"I don't think so," said Hermione. "There isn't anyway they'd be able to communicate with him, is there? And Harry, no matter what happened with the Map, I'm sure that Professor Watson would never want to hurt you. He likes you! You're a great student in his class, and he really respects you."

Harry played with his eggs a little with his fork.

"And remember that when he took the Map, the reason he was angry was because he said Sherlock Holmes could use it to find you if he had it. Watson isn't about to help Holmes get to you," said Ron.

Harry was feeling a little reassured. Still, he hoped the new security measures would keep Holmes from getting in a third time. Sir Cadogan had of course been retired to his own stretch of wall in the North Tower, and the portrait of Mrs. Hudson had been reinstated as guardian of Gryffindor Tower. Looking very nervous, she was protected by two trained security trolls, who paced back and forth on the landing and glared at students as they gave the password, which now changed at least every other day and was a phrase stranger and longer than ever. Students were no longer able to leave the castle after six in the evening without a teacher, and Quidditch practices were heavily monitored by Madam Hooch and often another member of the staff.

Quidditch. The final was fast approaching, and never could anyone remember a match doing so in a more highly charged atmosphere. Everyone was becoming more and more excited and nervous for the game, and Harry couldn't imagine that Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw's teams were even able to practice anymore, because it seemed as if Gryffindor and Slytherin, the two teams that would be facing off, were constantly using the pitch. And when he wasn't on the pitch practicing with the rest of the team, Harry felt like he was engaged in constant discussions, or more like lectures, on tactics with Wood and struggling to keep up with the vast amount of work from his classes. Their final exams were fast approaching as well, and Harry knew that as soon as the Quidditch final was over he'd have to get studying.

Wood was incessantly reminding his teammates that since Slytherin led the tournament by two hundred points, Gryffindor would have to win by at least that much to win the cup.

"So you must catch the Snitch only if we're fifty points up, have you got that, Harry?" became Wood's new mantra, much to Harry's annoyance, who had indeed got it.

The day before the match, Harry and Ron were sitting in Professor Yao's class, staring into the shallow depths of the crystal ball.

"I have decided to end our unit on tea leaves," said Professor Yao delicately. There was a collective sigh of "yes" from most of the class. Professor Yao's obsession with tea and her teapots had kept them on the subject since their very first lesson, and now that it was May, they were very eager to do something different. "Therefore, we will now be starting crystal gazing. Everyone turn to the corresponding page in _Unfogging the Future_, and kindly observe the orbs I have laid out for you. Crystal gazing is a refined art, and one you simply cannot do with the inner eye clouded by the mundane. Relax your mind, let it go completely blank, and focus on the contents of your orb. Perhaps some of you will see by the end of the lesson, if the fates favor us."

Harry did as he was told, and stared into the swirling mist inside his crystal ball. A few half-hearted attempts later, he concluded that there was no way he was going to be able to clear his mind completely. Thoughts of the match that was _the next day_—could it really be the _next _day? and other thoughts, more closely related to the task at hand, like "this is stupid," kept drifting across his mind like the fog inside the glass. He sighed sleepily, the smell and warmth of Professor Yao's classroom not helping, and Hermione's incessant bemoaning of what a waste of time this was. Wait, Hermione? When had she gotten here? Harry was about to open his mouth to ask her when she'd come in, when Ron spoke.

"Well," said Ron, after a few minutes of quiet crystal gazing. "I think it's obvious what this means."

Harry and Hermione looked at him in surprise. "There's going to be loads of fog for your Quidditch match, Harry."

Harry and Hermione snickered, and Professor Yao swooped down on their table. "Well? What have you observed so far?"

"The hawk," said Hermione, staring Professor Yao down defiantly. Apparently Hermione thought that if that was what Professor Yao was expecting, and Harry was sure that it was, she might as well tell it to her.

"My dear," said Professor Yao, regarding Hermione with clear dislike. "From the moment you stepped in my classroom, I was aware that you lacked…a certain aura needed for Divination."

There was silence in the classroom. Everyone was watching Hermione to see how she would react.

Professor Yao continued. "You lack the _subtlety _for such an art."

"You mean that if I have to sit here for hours staring at an empty piece of glass—" said Hermione.

"I mean that you must clear your mind, see beyond yourself and the immediate world! I have never met a student so inept at this!"

"Fine!" yelled Hermione, who had clearly had enough. "I quit! I'm leaving!" and with that, she stood up, grabbed her bag, and marched over to the trapdoor, which she kicked open and left through.

Harry and Ron stared at each other in amazement. 

Back in the common room that night, everyone was dealing with the stress and excitement of the match in different ways. Fred and George were doing it by making a great deal more noise than usual, with Angelina, Alicia and Katie laughing at their jokes, and Wood was sitting in a corner, muttering to himself as he tapped squiggly arrows on a model Quidditch pitch with his wand. Harry was sitting with Ron and Hermione in their normal chairs, trying to ignore the rest of his fellow Gryffindors, who were either happy and enthusiastic about the match they'd get to watch tomorrow, or else subdued and jittery, anxious about the match that would decide who won the cup this year—Gryffindor hadn't won the cup in years, and everyone was eager to see Slytherin put down.

"I just can't work," said Hermione uneasily, who still had the most to do out of anyone, even if she intended to make good on her promise of dropping Divination.

It came as a relief to Harry when Wood stood up and shouted "Team! Bed!" 

The dawn broke, and Harry woke up not too long afterward. When he walked down to breakfast with the rest of the team, if was to a tumult of sound, the cheers of Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw drowning out Slytherin's boos. Wood spent all of breakfast encouraging his team to eat, while touching nothing himself. Then he dragged them all outside to get a feel for the conditions. The sky was bright blue with a smattering of clouds, and the air was warm and nearly hot, but that would be comfortable once they were in the air.

Harry had hoped they would have a chance to fly a lap or two to warm up, but soon students began to spill out from the school and into the stands, and Wood ordered them to the changing rooms.

Once they had put on their Quidditch robes, if Wood was going to make a speech, he found that he couldn't. He opened his mouth a few times, but words failed him, and he simply beckoned them to follow him out onto the pitch.

"And it's the Gryffindor team!" yelled Lee Jordan enthusiastically. "With…Jones! Spinnet! Bell! Wood! Weasley! Weasley! Aaaaannnnddd, _Potter_!"

Harry felt like a gigantic beast was welcoming him onto the field with the noise that issued from the hundreds of students gathered in the stands, each one attempting to scream themself hoarse.

The Slytherin team had already assembled, and Madam Hooch called "Captains, shake hands!" Harry watched with the rest of the team as Wood and Flint attempted to break each other's fingers.

"Mount your brooms!" yelled Madam Hooch. "And…Three! Two!" Harry assumed she yelled "one," but the roar of the crowd made it hard to tell. He thought he could make out the sound of her whistle, and he rose into the air with the rest of the players, kicking off hard.

It was exhilarating. Harry soared above the ground, leaving his fear behind with it, and prepared himself to play. He would search for the Snitch, and then keep Malfoy off it until Gryffindor was fifty points up and he could catch it himself.

Malfoy soon appeared, keeping his distance from Harry, but still very close by. Lee's commentary began as the Chasers passed the Quaffle back and forth between themselves, and Harry soon realized that this was going to be the dirtiest game of Quidditch he had ever witnessed. The Slytherin Beaters, Bole and Derrick, attacked Wood, unprovoked, and the Weasley twins retaliated by swinging Bludgers at the Slytherin Chasers mercilessly whenever they had the chance. If Fred and George were using the Bludgers, Slytherin players would just crash into the Gryffindor Chasers themselves instead, and penalties were awarded frequently.

Harry was beginning to think that penalties would count for half of the points scored in the match, but he tried not to get too angry at the brutal tactics playing out around him and search for the Snitch. Not long after Katie put in a well-placed shot past the Slytherin Keeper, he saw it. It was flitting about near Wood's end of the pitch, but Harry knew Gryffindor was only thirty points up and he shot off towards the Slytherin hoops, faking a look of intense concentration. Malfoy fell for it, and quickly jerked around to follow Harry, his eyes scanning the area in front of them frantically as he looked for the Snitch. Harry hurdled forward, taking them closer and closer to the stands. Malfoy must clearly think he was crazy, they were going to crash in just a few seconds, and the crowds was roaring in confusion and excitement. At the very last moment, Harry pulled upwards, and a flush of adrenaline went through him as he nearly clipped some of the Hufflepuffs who were watching in that stand. Malfoy hit the wood just beneath where the seats started, and struggled to stay on his broom.

"HA!" yelled Lee gleefully. "You'll need to be lighter on your toes against a Firebolt, Malfoy! Potter hadn't seen the Snitch at all, that was a very clever fake on his part with a very well-executed change of direction at the end there. Now, Slytherin in possession, approaching the goals—"

Harry savored his view of the pitch without Malfoy, and started to look for the Snitch again. It was several minutes before Malfoy rejoined him, and then Harry began to mark him so closely that the Slytherin Seeker quickly became frustrated.

Alicia scored twice, and Gryffindor was fifty points up. He could catch it now. If Harry got the Snitch now, they would win the match and the tournament. If only he could see the Snitch! It had disappeared, and Harry was unwilling to leave Malfoy unchecked to fly away from him and search for it this early in the game. Instead, he decided to play defensively, and stayed marking Malfoy.

"Get out of the way, Potter!" Malfoy snarled. Harry didn't even both to respond. One of the Slytherin Chasers had just gone up to the scoring area to take a penalty, and Harry's breath caught.

"Of course, Wood's an excellent Keeper," Lee was assuring the crowd. "Flint of Slytherin taking the penalty, he prepares, and—I DON'T BELIEVE IT, HE'S SAVED IT! Yes, Oliver Wood pulls off a spectacular save, just managing to punch the Quaffle away from the left goal hoop!"

Harry breathed again, and hurriedly began to search the skies. He could still catch the Snitch. Malfoy was circling just a little ways away, breaking away from Harry while he was distracted. Harry zoomed forwards towards him, but then something glinted below. He changed directions with a jerk, and saw just what he had hoped—the small golden ball was there, and he didn't think Malfoy knew. Without pause, Harry leaned his entire body forward on his Firebolt and pushed it downwards. Malfoy noticed after several seconds and followed, but Harry had the lead. Chasers and Beaters were flying about below, but Harry didn't care, he had eyes for the Snitch only. He felt a _whoosh_ of air behind him, and didn't turn to see George's Bludger deflect Malfoy, but reached out his right arm to catch the ball, and in the fraction of a second in which blood and a cacophony of noise from the crowd and Lee's megaphone, indistinguishable, pumped in his ears, Harry closed his hand around the ball.

It was complete mayhem, it was a rush of ecstasy and Harry and the rest of the team piled on top of one another, with one thought in mind, that they screamed. "WE'VE WON! WE'VE WON THE CUP!"

Harry was lifted up off the ground again, holding the Snitch above his head, not sure he'd ever be able to release his fingers even if he wanted to. And they led themselves over to the stand that was erected, where Dumbledore was waiting, holding the enormous trophy, and hundreds of Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs boomed their approval above.

If only Harry could open his fingers to reach for his wand, he knew he could have cast magic's best Patronus. 


	14. The Great Game

Chapter Fourteen: The Great Game

Although Harry's euphoria of finally winning the Quidditch Cup lasted at least a week, after that it was exam time. The third years spent the days before studying, buried in their books and notes, though no one as deep in as Hermione.

All in all, Harry didn't feel as if he was drowning as he took his exams. Although transfiguring the dried beehive and honeycomb into a tube of spray paint had been very difficult, he felt that he had matched the requested the shade of yellow quite closely. Perhaps his satisfaction was mostly due to the cheering charm he'd had performed on him during the Charms examination when he was partnered with Ron. Astronomy was that night, and Harry got himself through alright by drinking large quantities of caffeinated hot cocoa at lunch and then crashing into bed when they were finished, ready to sleep in preparation for the Potions exam the next morning—he wasn't sure if there was a magical stimulant he could use, but he knew that now was not the time to be experimenting.

Potions was a different story. Harry knew that here his Confusing Concoction's color was definitely off since it didn't match Hermione's gentle orange hue, but Anderson was in a strangely pleasant mood, and even smiled at Harry as he presided over the exam. This, along with the fact that Anderson seemed to be trying to grow a beard, completely confused Harry, fitting with the task he had been set, but ultimately unhelpful.

During his History of Magic exam, Harry scribbled down everything that Angelo had ever told him about magical narcotics and Muggle affairs, wishing he had a large bowl of ice cream with it while he did. Care of Magical Creatures, however, was by far the easiest test Harry had ever taken. Hagrid, though having provided some interesting creatures throughout the year, apparently was worried about students doing well on his exam, and had decided to stick to flobberworms. To pass, all they had to do was make sure their flobberworm was alive at the end of the hour; since flobberworms are best left to their own devices, this was a manageable task for Crabbe and Goyle even. Harry, Ron and Hermione were able to spend an enjoyable hour talking with Hagrid, who was enthusiastic about the baby one of his hippogriffs was about to have.

The penultimate exam was Defense Against the Dark Arts, which turned out to be an interesting sort of obstacle course that Professor Watson had set up. They had to traverse a quagmire full of hinkypunks, kappas, and redcaps while avoiding the Dark creatures and their attempts to confuse them to make their way to a trunk containing a boggart that they were expected to climb into and do battle with. When Harry had successfully made it across the marsh, he climbed into the trunk with the boggart, then emerged mere moments later, grinning.

Watson was standing on hand with a clipboard. "Excellent, Harry, well done," he said, smiling and making a note to himself. "Full marks," he whispered.

Harry waited up for Ron and Hermione and to see how they were doing; Ron did fairly well until a hinkypunk successfully convinced him to wade waist-high into a small sinkhole, and Hermione did everything perfectly until the boggart. She burst out of the trunk after a few minutes, screaming.

"Hermione!" said Professor Watson in alarm. "Hermione, are you alright?"

"Professor McGonagall!" gasped Hermione. "She said I'd failed everything!"

Finally, Harry only had a single exam left: Divination. Hermione somehow was acting as if she was going to take her Muggle Studies and Arithmancy exams at the same time, but when Ron tried to ask her about it, she snapped at him and asked if he'd seen one of her books. Ron hadn't, and merely shook his head and returned to staring at his copy of _Unfogging the Future._

The next morning, Harry and Ron ascended the steps to the top of North Tower, and shook off Sir Cadogan along the way, who seemed to be feeling bored on his humble landing removed from the main traffic of students to accost. As their classmates were called up to test with Professor Yao one by one, Harry and Ron waited, glumly. Harry felt it was slightly ironic that he felt more confident about History of Magic than this exam, never expecting, or admittedly, endeavoring, to do very well in History of Magic. After forty-five minutes or so of turning the pages of _Unfogging the Future_ dejectedly and trying to push away the thoughts of the sunny grounds outside, he and Ron were the only ones left waiting to be tested.

When Ron's name was called, Harry wished him good luck, and then stood up, knowing he would be next. He wondered to himself why he hadn't gone earlier and Ron wasn't last, that being how it would progress if she was going in alphabetical order, but apparently Professor Yao didn't think things as mundane as the alphabet should trouble her.

"How'd it go?" asked Harry, looking up at Ron as he descended the ladder.

"Rubbish," said Ron. "It's crystal gazing. I didn't see anything, so I just made some stuff up, but I don't think she bought it."

"Harry Potter," said the vague voice of Professor Yao from upstairs.

"I'll see you in the common room, alright?" said Ron.

Harry nodded, and pulled himself up on the ladder. The warmth was an immediate change once his body entered the attic-like classroom, and Harry coughed slightly. Professor Yao was sitting at a circular table, a crystal orb in front of the chair across from her. Harry sat down uneasily, knowing that since he had never seen anything in a crystal ball before, he was unlikely to be able to for the first time now under the pressure of an exam.

"Today I will be testing you on crystal gazing, Mr. Potter," said Professor Yao, raising a ceramic cup of tea to her lips. "Kindly gaze into the orb and tell me what you see. Take your time."

Harry bit his bottom lip and looked at the small ball of glass. There was swirling white mist, and nothing else. Remembering what Ron had said, he decided to just pretend. Casting his mind around, his thoughts landed on Sherlock Holmes. What could he say about him?

"Well?" prompted Professor Yao delicately.

"There's…er…a sort of dark shape…."

"What does it resemble?"

"I man, I think…he has long hair, it's pretty tangled…and there's something behind him. It looks like a tree."

"Have you seen this man or this tree anywhere before?"

"Er…," said Harry informatively. "Well, the tree looks a bit like the Whomping Willow…yeah, it's the Whomping Willow."

"I see," said Professor Yao, writing notes to herself. "And the man?"

"I think it's Sherlock Holmes…it looks like he's chained to the Whomping Willow." That had seemed alright in Harry's mind…wouldn't it make sense for Holmes to be chained to something for symbolism? Or something?

"Indeed?" said Professor Yao.

Harry had the feeling that he was not doing well at all. Deciding to add one last bit, he peered into the ball as if studying it intently, and then said "It looks like his chains have snapped. He's vanished."

"Hmm," said Professor Yao, not encouragingly. She looked up at Harry, her expression unemotional. "Anything else, dear?"

"No," said Harry, sitting back slightly and looking at her. "It's just the tree, now."

"Well, I'm sure you did your best," she said, writing something down briefly. "You may go now."

Relieved, Harry got up to leave, but then there was a gasping sound behind him, and he turned to see if Professor Yao was alright.

Her eyes had gone wide, and she was staring in Harry's direction, but plainly not seeing him. Harry swiveled around hastily, but there was nothing behind him but the wall, looking as it always did. "Professor?" he asked.

"It will happen tonight," she said, her voice much stronger and harsher, her slight accent more pronounced. "The Dark Lord lies alone and friendless, abandoned by his followers. His servant has been chained these twelve years. Tonight, before midnight, the servant will break free and set out to rejoin his master. Yet tonight, after midnight, before the servant sets out…two shall return to clear the name of another… .Tonight...before midnight...the servant...will set out...to rejoin...his master..."

Harry stared at her in alarm, not sure what to do or say. Then, Professor Yao blinked several times, and seemed to return to herself. "Are you alright, Mr. Potter? Haven't we finished?" she asked, seeming politely confused.

"You just told me," said Harry slowly, frowning and his eyes wide, "that one of Voldemort's servants is going to return to him tonight, and that he'll rise again with their help!"

Professor Yao gave a little gasp at Voldemort's name. "Do not say He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's name, my dear boy!" she exclaimed. "I never said any such thing, and I should hope it is not true!" she insisted.

"But, you just said it!" insisted Harry even more fervently. "It was just a moment ago, don't you remember?"

"Certainly not! I do not deal in the dramatic, and should not like to be accused of predicting any such thing!" she said, seeming slightly offended. "I shall see you later, Mr. Potter. This is the end of your exam."

Harry stood there just a moment longer, then turned and walked towards the trapdoor. Then he turned again to face her, about to open his mouth, then, very confused, thought better of it and started to leave. Had he just witnessed Professor Yao make a genuine prediction? If so, he had been the only one there and she seemed not remember it herself, so it fell upon him to do something about it. Or had she just been messing with him? Whatever she said, he knew that Professor Yao enjoyed being dramatic and mysterious, so was it possible she was simply trying to impress him?

Harry started to run, and jogged his way back to the Gryffindor common room. He had to tell Ron and Hermione, for starters, and then they could decide whether or not to take this news to a teacher. He ignored the security trolls by Mrs. Hudson, and panted at her "Vatican Cameos!" She swung forward timidly, and Harry climbed into the portrait hole without any sort of grace at all. He tripped once he got through and fell onto the floor, catching himself with his hands. Snickers sounded around the room, and he looked up to see Ron and Hermione looking at him from across the room.

Crossing over to them, Harry tried to ignore all the stares he was getting, and then whispered to Ron and Hermione, "I need to tell you something. Not here, though," he realized he had just attracted too much attention, and he didn't want even more, like there had been when Ron had announced Sherlock Holmes had been in their dormitory. "Let's go to the Owlery, it's usually empty."

"Okay," said Ron, looking at Harry strangely. "Harry, are you alright?"

"I'm fine, but we need to talk."

The three of them went off in the direction of the Owlery, but soon they noticed that something was not quite right. Students were swarming about agitatedly, and there was a large mass of black-clad students on the landing of the sixth floor, blocking the wall.

Ron spotted Ginny, who was visible by her flaming red hair with a few other students, having just come out a hallway opposite them and looking worried. "Ginny, what's going on?" he called, running over to her and Harry and Hermione following.

"I don't know," said Ginny. "We just heard there was some sort of writing on the wall."

Harry's heart sank. "Not like last year, with the Chamber of Secrets?" he asked her.

Ginny went pale. "I don't know, I was just coming to see what was happening."

They craned their necks, trying to see better, but it was hopeless. Harry led them over to one of the staircases, and they climbed it up two floors to join the crowd of students. Neville was there, so Harry asked him if he knew what was going on.

"Someone saw the writing on their way to Ravenclaw Tower," he said. "They're saying it wasn't there earlier."

"What does it say, Neville?" pressed Hermione.

Neville pointed, a group of students parted. In messy, all-caps white letters was written on the stone: "GET SHERLOCK." Whoever had done it had drawn a little smiley face in the O of "Sherlock."

"Owlery, now," said Harry shortly. Ron and Hermione didn't seem to have a clue what he wanted to tell them, but as he started to push around students and run off, they had no choice but to dash off after them.

"Why in such a rush, Potter?" called the snarling voice of Donovan Malfoy, who had apparently also been drawn to see what was up. "Running from a dementor?"

Harry just gritted his teeth and ignored him, desperate to get away from the scene before a teacher showed up and they were all put under lockdown in their common rooms or something and he lost the chance to talk to his friends in private. However, Hermione was closest to Malfoy, and had different ideas.

There was a sort of crunching, smacking sound, and Harry turned to see Hermione leaned over and her fist out, Malfoy staggering back into Crabbe and Goyle, hands cupping the let side of his face. It didn't take a genius detective to work out what had just happened.

"Hermione!" said Ron in a shocked voice, grabbing her robes at the shoulder.

"Come on!" said Hermione, dashing up to where Harry had stopped. She was right, now they had all the more reason to run to the Owlery as fast as they could.

Once they had climbed all the steps to the Owlery and entered, checking to make sure it was indeed deserted, Ron turned to Hermione. "Hermione, I just don't know what's gotten into you lately! First you walk out on Yao, now you hit Malfoy!"

Hermione looked rather flattered.

"We need to talk about this," said Harry. "And I'm not talking about Hermione punching Malfoy. Although that was quite brilliant." He looked at her and smiled. Then he rushed to divulge what had happened at the end of his Divination exam, explaining how he had just finished telling Professor Yao about Sherlock Holmes and the Whomping Willow when she went rigid, and what she had said about Voldemort and his servant. Hermione pressed him to try his best to remember her exact wording.

"Do you really think she could have been making an actual prediction?" Harry asked her.

"Oh, I don't know, Harry," said Hermione doubtfully. "I mean, really, she's not the most reliable, and Divination really isn't very precise, I'm not sure if I would believe her."

"You weren't there, Hermione, it was sort of scary," said Harry. "She wasn't acting like herself at all, and she seemed to not know what she'd said afterward."

"Still—" interjected Hermione.

"And she said that it's going to happen tonight?" asked Ron. "Well, she must've been talking about Sherlock Holmes! Would he know where You-Know-Who is? He can't be going back to him, can he?"

Harry scratched the back of his head. "Maybe. Could someone else have found out and written that stuff about Sherlock Holmes on the wall? Are they trying to get people to catch him? I don't know why that smiley face was there, they must be really crazy."

"Maybe there is someone on the inside trying to help him," said Ron darkly. "Someone demented, who put that stuff about him up on the wall. Or maybe Yao's just cracking up, and she acted like she didn't know what you were talking about when you told her what she'd said, but now she's trying to scare everyone by writing stuff on the walls. Mind you, she always was off her rocker, no idea what it is with her and the tea pots."

"I don't know about _that,_ Ron," said Hermione, pursing her lips.

"Do you think we need to tell someone, though?" asked Harry again.

"Oh, Harry," said Hermione skeptically. "I don't think you can believe anything that old fraud says, but after someone put that up on the wall, I just we should to be safe."

Harry was reminded of his first year, when he had been so determined to work out what the three-headed dog on the third floor was guarding, and how by the time they had decided to go to Dumbledore it had been too late. "We don't want a repeat of first year, remember?" he said. "I say we go to McGonagall."

"Well alright, let's go," said Ron, turning to go.

"Wait, Harry, is that Hedwig?" said Hermione, pointing out one of the Owlery windows.

"Yeah, it looks like it," said Harry. He watched as Hedwig approached and soared into the room, landing on the window ledge and holding out a letter for Harry in her beak.

"What is it?" asked Ron.

"I dunno, I don't have anyone to write to me, except maybe Hagrid," said Harry. "Look, she has a package, too." So she did indeed. Harry untied it from her leg, and took the letter as well. First he opened the letter, and saw that it had been typed. He read it aloud, feeling more and more puzzled and his heart rate increasing all the time.

"_Hi, Sherlock. It's been awhile, hasn't it? But I have a new game for you, and I think you'll find it most enjoyable. Someone at Hogwarts is now locked in a wooden house on the grounds, with the body-bind jinx placed on them—if you don't solve my little puzzle by 4 o'clock, the erumpent horn in the room with him will detonate, just like if you try to free them yourself. Here's your clue."_

"What?" said Ron. "_Hagrid?"_

Harry didn't say anything, just fumbled to open the package. What was inside shocked him—it was Tom Riddle's diary.

"_What_?!" said Ron again.

Harry was starting to feel terrified. Hagrid was in danger, and someone outside the school, or maybe inside it, had the power to attack Hagrid threaten his life, and was apparently trying to get _Sherlock Holmes_ to save him.

"Okay," said Harry. "Okay. Er…it looks like there's someone trying to write to Sherlock Holmes, but why am I getting this?" Harry looked uncertainly at Hedwig. "And what about Hagrid? We have to save him!"

"It said four o'clock, right?" said Hermione, her voice shaking. She checked her watch. "Harry, that's in thirty minutes!"

"Okay," said Harry yet again, bouncing up and down in his trainers. "I vote we don't try and find Sherlock Holmes."

"No kidding," said Ron. "But what do we do?"

"There isn't time to see a teacher now," said Harry. "There'd be too much to explain, and then they'd have to somehow get to Hagrid. But I think that we can safely say that whoever sent this," he raised the letter and the diary, which he was still holding, "is the same person who wrote 'GET SHERLOCK' on the wall. Do you think that if Hedwig gets sent back with the solution to whatever puzzle they're talking about, Hagrid'll be okay?"

"I don't know if we can trust them, but that's what we'd have to try, isn't it?" said Hermione, sounding just as frightened as Harry.

"What, are you suggesting we try and solve this?" said Ron, looking between the two of them.

"We have to, don't we?" said Harry loudly, almost starting to panic. "Look, here's what we know. Sherlock Holmes either is or isn't guilty. It looks like some crazy person is trying to get him to solve crimes like he used to, and if he doesn't solve it in a certain amount of time, they kill Hagrid. This is assuming that Holmes even cares about anyone's else's life, which he may not if he's guilty, but if he's guilty, then he probably never actually solved a crime, he just faked them all, so this person is even crazier. None of this makes any sense, but we're the only one's who know anything about this, and if some sort of message doesn't get sent to this person in"—Harry checked his watch—"twenty-eight minutes, Hagrid is going to die!"

"It looks like we don't have a choice," said Ron.

"And if we really only have twenty-eight minutes, that's not nearly enough time to see a teacher about this and have them do something about it," said Hermione. "Anyway, Hedwig would still have to get our answer to them, and we don't know where this person is. They'd have to be nearby if they've kidnapped a student and just wrote that message on the wall, but still, Hedwig would have to find them."

"And I don't think we could go to Hagrid's hut and save him," said Harry. "They'd know, wouldn't they? And then the explosive would go off."

Hermione nodded, then gave a strangled sob.

"Okay, we have to solve this," said Harry, holding up the diary and the letter. "What do we think they're asking, do they just want to know what it is?"

"That's easy," said Ron. "I mean, we're the students who found it last year."

Harry flipped through the book. "Wait, this isn't the real diary. Look, there's some ink spilled on some of the pages—if you put ink on the real thing, it disappeared."

Hermione took it from him. "But it's a very good fake. Look, there's even the hole from the Basilisk fang and everything."

Harry consulted the note. "It says we have to solve the puzzle, and this is the clue. So maybe that _is_ all they're asking for. Sherlock Holmes used to solve murders, right?"

"Murders and kidnappings," said Hermione, nodding. "I think he did a theft once, too."

"So we just tell them that this is You-Know-Who's old diary and that he used it to save a copy of himself in it so he could open the Chamber of Secrets?" said Ron. "We can explain how he was the one to kill Myrtle, that's a murder for him. And maybe we should talk about how it possessed Ginny last year and caused all those people to get petrified."

"That's it, though?" said Hermione nervously. "I mean, we already knew all that already, we didn't really solve it."

"But this was meant to go to Sherlock Holmes, and he would have been in Azkaban last year when all that happened," pointed out Harry. "He probably wouldn't have heard about any of that, so he'd have to be deducing it all on his own."

"All that from just a copy of a diary?" asked Ron.

"I guess so," Harry said. "He was supposed to be really good as this sort of thing, wasn't he?"

"If he wasn't a fake," said Hermione. "Here, I have a quill. Who's the fastest writer? That's a lot to get down, and we need to send this with Hedwig as quick as we can."

"Why are you even asking us that?" said Ron. "You, obviously!"

"Alright," said Hermione. She took the note from Harry, and then started to scribble everything they knew about the diary, especially how it was linked to Myrtle's death and had caused all the attacks at Hogwarts the previous year. Then she folded it up and they tied it to Hedwig's leg.

"Go, Hedwig!" said Harry, urging her off. The snowy owl kicked off from the window ledge and soared off into the sky and out of sight.

"Oh, come on, Hedwig," groaned Hermione quietly, wringing her hands. "You do think she knows where to go, don't you?"

"She must have gotten that letter from somewhere," said Harry. "I still don't understand where, though, and _how, _and why Hedwig and why me."

"What do we do now?" asked Ron.

"We should get down to Hagrid's cabin," said Harry. "I know we can't go in, but we can get nearby, and then we'll at least be able to know…."

"What if Hedwig gets a reply?" asked Ron. "Do you think she will?"

"It seems like it," said Hermione. "It seemed like that person would write back."

"If we're out in the open, Hedwig will be able to find us," said Harry. "But I have to know if Hagrid's okay, and if they don't get the message, we're going to have to try and do something. If we go to a teacher now explaining everything will take too long, and what if Hedwig comes back with another note and she can't find us? There's a time limit, we can't waste any time."

"Time," said Hermione. "Oh, oh…"

Ron looked at her strangely, but Harry didn't notice. "Let's go," he said, and they three of them started running down the stairs. They streaked through the hallways, which were devoid of students. Harry wondered if everyone had been put under lockdown, but knew they didn't have time to find out. His only thoughts were of getting to Hagrid, and hoping with all his might that no teachers would see and stop them.

When they finally exited the castle and started running across the grounds, Harry could see smoke coming from Hagrid's cabin as it usually did, wafting over the trees of the Forbidden Forest nearby. He kept running until they'd reached Hagrid's pumpkin patch, then the three of them stopped and gasped for air, staring at the house.

Harry checked his watch—it was 4:02.

He held out his wrist to show the other two, and Hermione held out hers to show 4:03. Either way, they were past the time limit.

"He must be okay, then!" Ron exclaimed, sounding relieved. "His house looks fine, don't you think?"

It did—Harry felt relief blossoming in his chest and spreading to the rest of his body. He gave a strangled laugh, and Hermione made a sort of sobbing sound. Ron pulled her into an awkward sort of hug, and the trio stood there, watching Hagrid's house. A few moments later, Hagrid came out of the back door holding something horn-shaped, crashing into the Forbidden Forest.

"Look, he's okay!" said Harry.

"I guess he's got to go do something with that erumpent horn," reasoned Ron. "Those things are dangerous, you don't want one lying around.

Harry still didn't really know what that was, but he didn't think he really needed to to the get the jest of what was going on, even if he really didn't understand most of what was happening.

"_Scabbers?_" gasped Ron, pulling away from Hermione. He crouched down and scooped something up from beside the pumpkins, returning with what looked like his old rat held in his hands.

Not half a moment later, a black hawk swooped down on them, causing Hermione to scream and break away from Ron, dropping a note at their feet. Harry stared around for the hawk, which had stopped and was flapping its wings as it held itself a few feet away from them.

"Hey!" said Harry. "It's you! Ron, Hermione, I've been seeing that hawk all year! You can see it too, right?"

"Yeah," said Ron, startled.

"Then it can't be an omen of my death!" Harry felt his stomach churn, thrilled with the prospect of his death not being foretold by Professor Yao or her tea leaves at all, but also terrified of what this next note would say. He bent over and picked it up to read.

"What does it say?" asked Hermione.

"_Very good, Sherlock. How about we _don't_ meet face to face to discuss this one? Still, you can leave your answer for me in your old hideout from when you were here—you know the one. You have two hours. _There's a picture too, of a painting," said Harry, holding it out.

The hawk began to make _cacaw_ing noises loudly, and Harry looked up at it.

"Scabbers, shut up!" said Ron. The rat was squealing madly, trying to get out of Ron's grip. It was plainly terrified, and Harry noticed a _third _animal stalking towards them just then—Crookshanks. In that moment, Harry was hit with the full force of the strangeness and hecticness of everything that had happened in just the last hour and a half—had it really been just ninety minutes ago that he had been waiting to take his Divination exam?

Ron struggled to maintain his hold of Scabbers, but it was no good. The rat jumped out of his hands, and started to streak across the ground away from them. Crookshanks followed, and soon the hawk was taking off after the other two animals. Not about to let the bird that had been plaguing him for so long get away when he might finally have some answers, Harry surged after them. Ron and Hermione joined the pursuit behind him, making a strange train of people and animals.

Harry had two thoughts in his mind: _We have to solve another mystery to save someone_ and _Don't let that hawk get away!_


	15. Cat, Rat and Hawk

Chapter Fifteen: Cat, Rat and Hawk

They were heading towards the Whomping Willow. Harry didn't know what they'd do when they came within reach of the branches, but he kept running anyway. He thought he saw something beneath his feet and jumped instinctively, then understanding that Ron had dived across the ground at Scabbers. Harry staggered to get away so he didn't step on Ron, and Scabbers's mad squeaking soon became audible as Ron's hands clamped down around the rat again. Unfortunately, the hawk noticed as well as swooped down on Ron, landing its claws on his fingers. Ron yelled, and Hermione started making frantic "sh"ing noises, saying "We're going to be heard, we're not supposed to be out alone!"

Ron scrambled up, trying to brush away the bird while holding onto his rat. The hawk soon left though, and Harry's eyes followed it to see it was now flapping around the edge of the Whomping Willow's reach. If he hadn't known better, he would have said that the bird was looking at him, almost as if waiting for him to follow it.

Crookshanks, however, had begun to slither across the grass towards the base of the tree. Almost as it he was able to army-crawl, the cat avoided the willow's movements and slinked right up to the trunk, where he pressed a knob with one of his paws. As if the tree was some sort of giant machine that could be deactivated, it stopped flailing of its own accord, the only movement coming from the ends of the branches that twitched with momentum, but were then still.

In a flash of black, the hawk dived down, snagged Harry's wand from his hand, and followed the swish of Crookshanks's bottle-brush tail, disappearing down what Harry could now tell was a small passageway through the trunk.

"HEY!" Harry yelled. Then, turning to his friends, he said "We should go after them. There's something strange about that hawk, I think it's been following me, and I need my wand back."

"How did Crookshanks know to press that part of the tree?" asked Hermione.

"How can the Whomping Willow just be _turned off_ like that?" asked Ron.

"I don't know," said Harry. "But there could be answers with them down that passageway in the tree. Let's go." He started to sprint towards it, ready to go after the animals.

"Harry, wait!" called Hermione. "We can't just dive into the Whomping Willow!"

"Isn't there another person captured somewhere?" said Ron, but he was following Harry. With a groan, Hermione followed suit. The three of them climbed into the hole in the knobbly trunk's wood, and landed in a sort of earthy passageway with derelict wooden paneling along the walls, an uneven stone path laid out along the floor. The passageway continued forward, rising and falling unevenly as if avoiding rocks of roots in the earth as it made its way to its destination.

"Where d'you supposed this leads?" asked Ron, stuffing Scabbers into his shirt pocket, which quivered.

"I don't know," said Harry. "It's marked on the Map of Private Eyes, but I didn't think anyone'd ever gotten through it because the Whomping Willow's planted right on top of the entrance."

"What about the next clue?" asked Hermione. "What painting is it?"

"I don't recognize it, but it looks like it was cut out a brochure or something," said Harry, holding it out. "It's a night scene."

"We have two hours, right?" said Ron.

"Yeah," said Harry. "Any ideas, Hermione?" She was still holding the picture, biting her lip.

"Harry, I don't even know what we're supposed to be looking for. Does this person still think we're Sherlock Holmes? Because this may be a reference to something he knows about. I've never seen the painting before, but the back says it's Vermeer, apparently it was lost but they just recovered it and there's going to be some show. It's from a Muggle museum in London, I've been there before," she continued slowly as she read the back of the clipping.

"But how is that a murder?" asked Ron.

"I don't know," said Hermione uncertainly. "It doesn't have to be a murder, does it?" she said, looking up at them.

"I guess not, just some sort of crime, but what do we do?" said Harry. "I want to find out what's going on with this hawk, and how Crookshanks seems to know about the Whomping Willow, first. Then we can try and solve this, or maybe if we have two hours we'll have time to go up to the school. And that hawk had the letter this time—so maybe we'll get answers by going this way."

"Or they could be leading us right to whoever's been sending them," said Hermione nervously. "Are we sure we want to go this way?"

Harry explained how he'd seen the hawk before, and how he'd wondered what to do about it after Professor Yao's warnings of his premature death. Hermione still seemed nervous. "So now you want to follow it?"

"Well, yeah," he said. "Somehow that hawk is related to Sherlock Holmes, and it's been following me around. I want to know why, and why it seems to know your cat. And I need my wand back!"

They kept walking down the passage, not knowing what they would find or even if it was the right decision to be trying to find anything that way. Soon, however, the passage stopped—there were stairs leading upwards. Climbing them, they arose into a very dusty, very old and seemingly unused house.

"How far d'you think we've gone?" asked Ron.

Harry shrugged, but Hermione whispered "I think we're in the Shrieking Shack. It seemed long enough to lead us to Hogsmeade."

It was rumored that the Shrieking Shack, a disused and dilapidated old building along the outskirts of Hogsmeade, was severely haunted. Looking around, though, it was clear that the damage that had been caused to this house had not been done by ghosts. There was upended furniture, some of it missing legs as if they had been ripped off. With some trepidation, Harry pushed open the door to the next room. Stepping over the threshold, the first thing he saw was Crookshanks, perched on an enormous, dusty four-poster bed complete with a faded red quilt and hangings. The next was two men facing each other. One was tall, thin, the pale skin of his face clinging to his sharp bones under a tangle of curly black hair. This was Sherlock Holmes, with his back to Harry, Ron and Hermione and pointing Harry's wand at the other man—pointing it at Professor Watson.

Watson's face was pained, but almost as if he was detached from himself, from the emotion. He was wearing a colossal coat decked out in what looked like fireworks: enough explosives to take the entire Shrieking Shack down.

"Get over there," said Sherlock Holmes in a deep, controlled voice. Watson didn't move, but his eyes had found the trio, fear flickering behind them. He stared at them, and Harry realized that the order was directed at them. Not knowing what else to do in the precarious situation, Harry took his friends' sleeves and led them across the room, walking slowly behind Holmes and then to the open area beside the two men. From here, Harry could see Holmes's face; it was blank of emotion, composed and guarded.

In a flash, Holmes turned away from Watson and redirected Harry's wand at Ron and Hermione, yelling "_Expeliarmus!"_ Their wands shot out of their hands where they'd been drawn, and Holmes caught them. Then, stuffing Ron and Hermione's wands into his robes and switching Harry's to his other hand, he ran at Watson. Before any of them could react to do anything, Holmes was bent down, ripping the coat off of Watson and flinging it along the dirty floor, where it stopped next to the bed at the other end of the room, off which Crookshanks jumped lightly and sauntered off towards to Hermione.

Watson seemed unable to move, but Holmes stood up and pointed his wand at him, murmuring something Harry couldn't make out. Watson's body seemed to relax, and he fell forwards into Holmes, who caught him in an embrace.

"Sherlock," Watson's voice made the sound somewhere between a wet gasp and a dry sob.

"John," said Holmes, pulling away. "Are you alright? It was him, wasn't it?"

Watson nodded. "Just like before, right? You switched, without telling me?"

"We never switched," said Holmes. "But he had his way of finding out. You'll have to believe me when I say that it wasn't me—and it never would have been."

"Of course I believe you," said Watson. "You…were the best man…and you still are. Can you forgive me? For ever doubting you before?"

"I'd be lost without my doctor," said Holmes.

Harry and Ron were too shocked to speak. It was Hermione who broke their reunion. "YOU!" she screamed, pointing at Watson. "I trusted you! And all along, you've been his friend!"

"Hermione," said Watson, stepping away from Holmes slightly to address her.

"You've been helping him all this time, haven't you?" she said, nearly hysterical. "That's how he's been able to get into the castle!"

"No, I have not been helping Sherlock get inside Hogwarts," said Watson, raising his voice to make himself heard above her.

"Don't trust him!" said Hermione to Harry and Ron. "He's a werewolf!"

A stunned moment of silence followed this accusation. Harry didn't know what to think or say about that, and Ron just looked shocked. Sherlock Holmes, however, gave a soft chuckle, and Watson frowned at Hermione.

"Um, no I'm not," he said.

"Yes, you are! I checked the lunar calendar, and you're always sick on the full moon, and never anytime else! Anderson gave us that lesson about them to try and get one of us to notice, I know it," insisted Hermione.

"Anderson?" said Sherlock Holmes in apparent revulsion and surprise. "_Anderson_'s teaching here?"

"Yes," said Watson to him. "So is Molly, and I'm the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor this year. I am, however, _not_ a werewolf. I'm just subject to frequent bouts of depression."

Hermione stared at him in puzzlement, frowning.

"Honestly," said Sherlock Holmes. "What have you been teaching them, John? Where's the _analysis_, the ability to actually examine the facts? _Anyone_ can see you're not a werewolf."

"Keep quiet, Sherlock. They probably have plenty of questions besides that. Although I'm still disappointed in you, Hermione, I wouldn't have expected you to come up with something like that."

Hermione just stood still, staring at him. She had obviously been very sure of herself.

Harry found his voice. "What are you doing with him?" he said, pointing at Holmes. "All this time, I trusted you. And now I find out you're still friends with him, after he killed my parents!"

Holmes's face seemed to stiffen. "I did not kill your parents, Harry. Voldemort did."

"You were their secret keeper, it's your fault!" Harry shouted at him.

"I was your parents' secret keeper, but I never revealed their location to Voldemort. That was someone else—someone in this very room."

Harry looked at Watson, but Watson seemed to take offense that Harry could even consider him. Stepping in front of Holmes, he held up his hands pacifyingly. "It wasn't me or Sherlock, Harry. It was someone else, the same person who just had me rigged up with explosives."

"The same one who's been sending me letters," Holmes said.

"The letters we've been getting?" asked Harry. "Asking you to solve a mystery or a person dies?"

"Exactly," said Holmes. "Knew we'd get there eventually. I got the first letter, but I was able to have your owl take it to you so you could write back about the diary. I've found out about a few things since I escaped, including the attacks that happened last year here, and I knew that you'd know more than I was going to be able to investigate quickly and could send the reply."

"Why did you think we'd help you with it?" demanded Harry.

Holmes frowned at him. "Because of who you are. People like you are so easy to predict, I knew you'd want to save the person who was held captive." He said it with such conviction, as if he didn't think Harry would have questioned that. Harry wasn't sure exactly what he meant by "people like you"...Gryffindors, perhaps?

"I delivered the second letter while in hawk form to get your attention," he continued undaunted, "as he was there with you, and I needed to get to him—the mystery is easy, though, and I didn't need to: the painting's a fake."

Harry's insides turned cold. _He was the hawk. _Sherlock Holmes was the hawk, and he'd been near him so many times already!

"Wait, how can you tell?" asked Watson. "What painting? What's going on with these mysteries? You can't have been taking cases, Sherlock, you're still on the run!"

"It's the reason you had that coat with the explosives on, John," explained Holmes. He seemed like he was forcing himself to remain patient, yet there was something else there in how he was talking, too—he was pleased to have an audience. How long had this man been isolated from other humans? Thirteen years? It seemed like he was enjoying explaining what had been happening to people who would listen. "He wanted to get my attention, so he sent a letter along with Voldemort's old diary and told me to solve the mystery within a time limit or someone would die. That was the first mystery—the second was about a painting. Clearly a fake, you can tell because of the supernova in the skyscape, it was only visible in 1858, but the painting is supposedly from the 1640s. Sloppy forgery, if you ask me. Anyway, you were the motivation this time. Why were you outside, John? Hardly anyone else is, probably because of my last two break-ins."

"How'd you know I was outside?" asked Watson.

"The last victim, Hagrid, was out in his cabin in the grounds, and he couldn't have gotten to anyone inside the castle and then back outside, where I saw him with these three, while _still _having a chance to put you under the body-bind jinx inside here. You can't Apparate inside the Hogwarts grounds. You must have been outside." _Wait _thought Harry. _No one was with the three of us, who is he talking about?_

Watson smiled, looking up at Holmes. "I'd forgotten…exactly what it's like. To hear you explain how you deduce things like that. I was looking for him—I saw him on the Map."

"The Map?" asked Harry, distracted from what Holmes had said about there being someone else with the three of them beforehand for a moment. "You know how to work it?"

"Of course I know how to work it," said Watson dismissively. "I helped write it. Anyway, I was examining it this afternoon after testing was finished, and I saw his name on the Map, outside, and Sherlock's too. I couldn't believe it—I thought the Map must be malfunctioning, but I knew that since we wrote it together, it couldn't possibly be. But he was long dead—so I came outside to try and find him, and I was amazed that Sherlock was back on the grounds again, and eager to see him if I could. He took me by surprise though, and I woke up to find myself like that just a few minutes ago, before you arrived. I must have been stunned, and then he had me under the body-bind jinx."

"_Who?_" demanded Ron. "Who is this person you keep talking about?"

"May I see your rat, Ron?" asked Watson.

"Scabbers? What has he got to do with it?"

"Everything," answered Watson. "He's not a rat at all, Ron. He's an animagus."

Holmes moved his eyes from Watson to Ron. "An animagus by the name of Jim Moriarty." 


	16. Quilltip, Redtail, Padfoot, and Claws

Chapter Sixteen: Quilltip, Redtail, Padfoot, and Claws

"You are both mental," said Ron faintly, staring at Holmes and Watson in disbelief. "Completely mental! He's just a _rat._"

"No," said Harry. "Moriarty's dead. _You_ killed him thirteen years ago!" he said, pointing at Holmes.

A spasm of disgust and anger seemed to go through Holmes's face. "I should've," he growled. Then his voice changed to be full of resentment. "I've had to spend the last year disabling his web, and he's still managed to infiltrate Hogwarts. Fitting, that he should spend the last thirteen years as a rat, because that's what he is."

"But how do you know?" asked Hermione. "That can't be right. It just can't be."  
"Why not?" asked Watson questioningly, regarding her.

"We did animagi in Transfiguration, and I went and looked them up later," said Hermione. "You have to get registered with the Ministry, and there have only been seven animagi in the last hundred years, and there wasn't any Moriarty on the list."  
Watson smiled wryly. "The Ministry will only know if someone is an animagus if they register—a person could learn to be one without the Ministry's knowledge. In fact, there used to be at least four unregistered animagi running around Hogwarts. Five, counting Moriarty."  
"Hurry up, John," said Holmes. "Moriarty is dangerous, and slippery, we need to kill him now while we have him captured. If you're going to tell them all of that, be quick."

"Wait, Sherlock!" said Watson, turning to him. "Harry, Ron and Hermione have already been through enough today—they deserve to know why. We should explain first."  
"Waiting," sneered Holmes. "I did my waiting! Twelve years of it! In Azkaban!" His voice, used for the first time in months or years, perhaps, had risen and cracked.

"And you don't think it was hard for me, too?" demanded Watson, turning on him. "I watched my best friend get arrested on the bloody roof of St. Mungo's, Sherlock! And now you just want to kill Moriarty in front of Harry Potter and two of his friends, one of whom has kept Moriarty as a _pet_ for thirteen years? _Without explanation?_ Sherlock, try to imagine what it's like for the rest of us who _feel_ our emotions, what it would be like to not have any explanation! Just try to imagine what it's been like for me the past thirteen years when the rest of the world thought you were a fraud, and I had to hold out! Being one of the only ones to still believe in you!"  
After this short speech, Watson stared at Holmes, panting. The lines and shadows in his face were more clear than ever, outlining the years of hurt that he'd endured since Voldemort's downfall-since Holmes' downfall. It was this, this clear show of frustration and weariness of Watson's part, showing how much he must have cared for Holmes, and still care, to feel that way about what had happened that started to impress upon Harry the idea that maybe Holmes really was innocent. It hadn't really seemed real before, this possibility, as if it was just speculation, but now, seeing the look on Watson's face as he looked at this man, who must have really been—and _remain_—his friend that Harry started to realize it really could be true.

Sherlock Holmes was staring at Watson, his forehead creasing slightly, and his eyes unblinking. It was several moments, a pause that spanned the entire room as caused them all to be silent as they watched his reaction. Harry didn't know what to do—he still knew so little about Holmes and still hadn't begun to work out what he thought of him at all. He still didn't know if they should be fighting the two men or joining with them to find this Moriarty person.  
Finally, Holmes blinked, and it seemed like something may happen—but then it didn't and the prolonged eye contact between him and Watson continued. Then, eventually, came Holmes' response. It was almost timid.

"You mean…I'm your best…_friend_?"  
Watson stared at him for a fraction of a second longer, then his face softened, as did his voice. There was something else in it when he spoke. "Of course. You're my best friend."  
Harry looked at Ron and Hermione uncertainly. It was clear from each other's faces that none of them knew what to do with this conversation and the unprecedented turn it had taken.

"After all this time?" pressed Holmes, still frowning. If he really wasn't a fake, thought Harry, then he must have a brilliant mind, but he seemed unable to know what to do with Watson's statement and all it implied.

"Always," said Watson.

The two men looked at each other a moment longer, and then Watson stepped forward and held out his arms to Holmes, who walked into them uncertainly. They hugged and then broke apart only a moment later, Holmes looking confused, and Watson turning to the three students, who were also confused; yet, even with all that had happened to them in the past few hours and still all they did not know or understand about the situation, it was unclear which party was struggling more with their confusion.

"I was saying something to you," said Watson, frowning.

"Animagi," supplied Hermione.

"Right," said Watson. He ran a hand through his hair and glanced sideways at Holmes briefly before addressing them again. "There were four of us, and we really just fell together after arriving at Hogwarts. That's a long story, but there was me and Sherlock, Molly Hooper, and your father, Harry, Greg Potter. We were brought together by Greg, I suppose—he realized Sherlock's talent at solving crimes early on. Then Sherlock sort of dragged me into it too, and Molly…well, Sherlock was pretty nasty to her at first, but then she became our friend. We solved crimes at Hogwarts—or, Sherlock did and we helped. There was always another mystery."  
"Except for when there wasn't," grumbled Sherlock.

"Shut up, Sherlock," said Watson mildly. "Anyway, we learned more about the castle than I think anyone ever has, and that was how we came to write the Map of Private Eyes. It became invaluable to us, where we charted out all the secrets of the castle we found and were able to track its inhabitants. Perfect for our purposes."  
"And you became animagi?" asked Hermione.

"Yes," said Watson. "After years of study. It's not easy…but it was worth it, and still is. We were each a different animal, and that's how we got our nicknames: I was Quilltip, Molly was Redtail, Greg was Padfoot, and Sherlock was Claws."  
"Claws?" asked Ron.  
"I'm a hawk," said Holmes gruffly. "They were all based on our animal forms, and John and the others decided that it would sound best if the last one in our little list was a single syllable. I wasn't about to go by _beak._"

"Anyway," said Watson pointedly. "Eventually we realized Moriarty was one, too. He caused the most trouble of anyone at Hogwarts, but he always managed to escape punishment and convince the others he was innocent. We found out what he was one night when he followed us into the Forbidden Forest. There are ways to recognize animagi from true animals."

Harry's eyes fell upon Crookshanks, who was only a few feet away from him, purring around Hermione's ankles. He pointed at him, saying "What about Crookshanks? He isn't an animagus, too?"  
"No," said Holmes, chuckling slightly. "But he did figure out that Moriarty isn't a real rat, that's why he's been going after him. I met him a few times in hawk form, and he saw me for what I am, too."

Harry remembered thinking it was strange that Crookshanks always chased Scabbers—there must have been dozens of other mice or rats in a castle the size of Hogwarts, but he'd seemed to have an obsession with Ron's rat. Could this be why?  
"But what about what happened during the war against Voldemort?" asked Harry. "What about my _parents_?" His voice constricted as he said the last word, demanding an answer. He heard a creaking of floorboards beneath him, but ignored it, thinking it must have come from him as his weight shifted when he took a step forward.

Holmes's sunken face darkened. "We were all fighting against him and the Death Eaters, Harry. They were hunting us down one by one, and Greg and Lily decided to go into hiding. They made me their secret keeper, under the Fidelius Charm. I was the obvious choice—they were among the very, very few people I thought were my friends, and once I decide to withhold information, it's impossible for my mind to be breached." Harry couldn't tell if the man was bragging, if it was just how he normally talked, or if he thought he was being the most honest this way: perhaps all three.

"Sherlock, they may not know how that charm works," said Watson.

"We do," said Harry hurriedly, wanting him to go on.

"Well, when Voldemort came to your house and killed Greg and Lily, everyone who knew I was the secret keeper immediately assumed that I had sold them out," continued Holmes bitterly, his anger clear. "Most everyone hated me already and didn't trust me, many thought I was a Death Eater spy, and they were more than willing to place the blame on me. However, it—"

"And how do we know you weren't?" demanded Ron.

"You have my word," said Holmes simply. "I may not be an angel myself, but that's the side I'm on." Harry wasn't sure what to say to this pronouncement. Luckily, Holmes resumed talking almost immediately.  
"It didn't take much investigation for me to know that it had been Moriarty who had been spying and who turned your parents over the Voldemort, Harry." As Harry heard Hermione and Ron shudder beside him, it registered with him for the first time that Holmes said the name. "At that point, Moriarty had already been working to discredit me. I had gained many admirers for my work and all the cases I'd solved, but he had an elaborately planned scheme to trap me, and frame me for his crimes. The Wizarding World became convinced that I was a fake, arranging 'crimes' so that I could appear to solve them and seem clever—my betrayal of two of my only friends was just to be the crowning jewel of Moriarty's deception." Holmes paused.

"And he cornered you," said Harry.  
"Yes," said Holmes. "I wasn't prepared for how far Moriarty was willing to go—he faked his own death to incriminate me for that, too, and I was soon arrested and taken to Azkaban."  
"How did you know he was innocent?" asked Hermione, looking at Watson.

"I knew Sherlock," said Watson candidly. "And I knew he would never do anything like that. Molly always said the same thing, she always believed in Sherlock too, we recognized him for the great man he is when hardly anyone else did."  
"But what about Anderson?" asked Harry.

"Oh, you know about that?" asked Watson. "I suppose you found out more than I thought. Yes, he just recently came up with an insane conspiracy theory about how Sherlock's innocent and about how he's been breaking into Hogwarts. Not that the innocent part's insane, just the crazy ideas he has about Sherlock's break-ins."

"No, it's obvious that's how he did it!" said an excited voice from outside of the room. They all turned instantaneously, just in time to see Anderson bursting into the room. He took one look at Holmes and exclaimed "Sherlock!" his voice getting even louder and more excited. "You're back! I can't believe it! You know I believed in you all along."  
There was clear impatience and distaste on Holmes's face. "What are you doing here, Anderson?" He snapped. "I don't have time for your incessant idiocy, I'm busy!"  
"It's really you!" cried Anderson gleefully. Harry had never seen Anderson look so happy in his life.

"Phillip, how did you get here?" asked Watson incredulously.  
"I followed you, I heard you say something about Sherlock earlier when you were heading out of your office."  
"Wait, you stalked me here?" said Watson, leaning forward and pointing at him.

"_Followed_," insisted Anderson.

"Oh, for God's sake," said Holmes dramatically, rolling his eyes. With a lazy flick of Harry's wand in his direction, he stunned Anderson. Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Anyway," said Holmes, turning back to them. "What were we talking about? Oh right, me being innocent. Right." 

**Author's Note: I'd like to ask your advice about the "Always" line. I know I used it earlier, but when I was writing I wanted to put it in here too, because I think it really fits with John and Sherlock's friendship in this story…but I also like that promise with the Golden Trio. I don't really want it in both places…is it too heavy-handed here? Please tell me what you think, and I hope you're enjoying it!**


	17. The Servant of Lord Voldemort

Chapter Seventeen: The Servant of Lord Voldemort

The three students looked at him in alarm. Anderson's arrival had seemed as if it could do nothing but complicate matters, but it seemed rash to have just stunned him like that.

"Did you have to, Sherlock?" sighed Watson.

"Of course," said Holmes. "He was putting me off. Still is, actually. Could you go over and turn him over so I don't have to look at his face?"

"His _face _is putting you off?"

"Yes."

"Well, just look at something else then," said Watson irritably. Holmes grinned at him.

"So, erm, Mr. Holmes?" asked Hermione tentatively.

Holmes looked at her, a crease on the bridge of his nose. "Just call me Sherlock."

"Um, okay," said Hermione, even more nervously. "So, you're saying that Harry's parents made you secret keeper during the war, and then Moriarty, who was already working to discredit you, found out where they were hiding, betrayed them to Voldemort, and then turned around and framed you? And then you were arrested and taken to Azkaban, and then broke out a year ago?"

"Yes."

"But how could Moriarty have found out the Potter's hiding place without you telling him?" Hermione pressed. "I thought the whole point of that charm was that know one could know without you telling them."

"It is," said Holmes…or, Sherlock…Harry wasn't sure how he felt about thinking of him like that. "But I suspect he was spying on me when I revealed it to someone else…I told very few people, though. It would have been difficult, but not impossible, especially for someone like Moriarty."

"And you escaped just to come after Scabbers?" asked Ron, who was having difficulty keeping the rat inside his shirt pocket. Scabbers was squirming and squeaking so violently it was becoming quite distracting. "How are we supposed to believe you knew which rat to go after?"

"That's a good question, Sherlock," said Watson, turning to him. "How _did_ you know how to find him?"

"Mycroft," said Sherlock, his voice devoid of all emotion.

"The Minister of Magic?" asked Harry.

"The very same," confirmed Sherlock. "He came in for a little brotherly chat about a year ago, during the summer. I snagged his paper before he left, and inside it was this." He withdrew a very tattered clipping from the _Daily Prophet_, and Harry recognized it as the piece about Ron's dad winning the money that allowed them to go on holiday in Egypt. He passed the article with the photo of the Weasley family to Watson.

"There he is, on Ron's shoulder," breathed Watson. "And…he's missing a toe."

"So?" asked Ron. "He's always been missing that toe, he probably just had a fight with another rat or something!"

"No," said Watson. "Didn't you ever hear…the biggest bit of Moriarty they could find was his finger. He must have cut it off right before he transformed."

Sherlock grunted in affirmation.

"I'm still not certain I believe you," said Harry.

"Then we'd better give them some proof, Sherlock," said Watson. "Ron, could you please give me the rat?"

"What're you going to do to him?" asked Ron.

"There's a spell we can use to force him to transform. If he really is a rat, it won't hurt him."

Ron looked torn, his hands still struggling to maintain control over Scabbers.

"Come on, Ron," urged Hermione. "We've heard them out, and they haven't tried to hurt us. We should just see if this is true."

"He did disarm us, though," said Harry quietly.

"That was a necessary precaution," said Sherlock. "Otherwise you may have interfered earlier and caused those fireworks of go off and kill John, not to mention the rest of us."

"Maybe you should give them their wands back now," said Watson.

"I suppose," said Sherlock sulkily. "Though that will mean I won't have one." Nevertheless, he did as suggested, and Harry took his, not stowing it in his robes, but keeping it out.

Looking at Harry and Hermione, as if for reassurance, and then Watson, Ron pulled the thrashing rat out of his pocket and walked over to Watson, who took him with a little difficulty.

"Ready?" Watson asked the room at large. When no one spoke, he pointed his wand at the rat he was holding tightly in his left hand, and then a flash of white light emanated from its end.

Watson dropped the rat, and it fell to the floor. But there, it began to change. It was like watching a time-lapse video, thought Harry. Limbs were sprouting, hair was receding, and soon a small man with dark hair and stubble along his jaw and chin was standing between them, a devilish grin coming into place on his face.

Harry stepped backward in shock. Could it be true? _Was it really true?_ Had this man been around him and Ron and everyone else at Hogwarts and the Burrow for the past two years, and with Ron for even longer before that?

Jim Moriarty, if that was indeed his name, brushed his hands up and down his suit, looking at Sherlock and smiling disconcertingly. His hair appeared greasy, and he seemed grubby, as if he really had been an animal just a moment before, much like Sherlock did. His skin was pale, but not as much as Sherlock's, and though he was thin (Scabbers had been losing weight for months, and now, Harry realized, that would have probably been because of Sherlock's escape from Azkaban), it was not so much as Sherlock.

"Hi," he said in a sing-song voice, making the word two syllables. "Didja miss me?" he asked, looking at Sherlock only.

"Hardly," snarled Sherlock back.

"Oh, don't give me that," said Moriarty. "I've told you time and again…you need me. And you have enjoyed our little game this evening. Touching, all the things good Doctor Watson said about you, just a minute ago after you saved him...aren't ordinary people _adorable_? Just like these kids! But they can be quite naughty, you know."

Sherlock said nothing, but just continued to survey Moriarty. Watson, Harry, Ron, and Hermione all had their wands trained onto him. Harry was on edge, ready to lash out with a spell at the first sign of trouble.

"I see you've gotten a little fan club again, Sherlock," said Moriarty. "Feel like you need a few more people behind you before you try to kill me again?"

"Oh, I'm not going to kill you," said Sherlock. "Not until you've been taken up to the castle, at least. We're going to need you as proof of my innocence."

"Innocence," repeated Moriarty. "As if _you _have ever been _innocent._ You've always been just as much a psychopath as I am. Tell me then, Sherlock, how did you get out of Azkaban? If not with dark secrets you've been learning from your master."

"I'm not a psychopath," Sherlock said. "I'm a high-functioning sociopath, do your _research_." Sherlock was holding himself with his back straight, hands behind his back, and eyelids lowered as he regarded Moriarty. "And I'm sure you've worked it out. Why tell you what you already know?"

"Oh, don't flirt with me, Sherlock," said Moriarty. In Harry's opinion, his voice was much more flirtatious than he could ever imagine Sherlock's being _able_ to be. "What if I haven't? Go on, show off for Watson here, I know you want to."

Sherlock's expression didn't change. "I was thin. I was able to transform, and then slip through the bars of my cell when the dementors brought in food one day. They can't see, and animals' emotions, less acute than that of a person, are harder for them to sense. Such is the case with an animagus. I flew back to the mainland and spent the year disabling your web and looking for an opportunity to break into Hogwarts and apprehend you."

"I'm disappointed. I'm _disappointed_," whined Moriarty. Harry was starting to realize the man could be annoying in addition to being creepy. "I was hoping for something a little more exciting. Ah, well."

"You're the one who killed my parents," said Harry.

Moriarty turned to him. "Oh, you intelligent little boy," he said condescendingly. "Out of curiosity, do you talk of anything else?" Harry's blood boiled. He gripped his wand more tightly, pointing it threateningly at Moriarty, who seemed unconcerned. "What makes you think it wasn't him?" he questioned, indicating Sherlock. "His friendly demeanor?"

Well, in comparison to Moriarty, Sherlock was practically cuddly. Harry wasn't about to take the word of a creepy little rat-man who'd apparently been spying on him for years over that of Watson and Sherlock.

"Why did you spend the last thirteen years as a rat, if you're innocent?" asked Harry coldly.

Moriarty shrugged.

"I'll tell you why," said Sherlock. "It was his way of keeping out of Azkaban, and faking his death also convinced the rest of us he was done for. Otherwise, he's knew that even if he was able to pull strings in the Ministry and evade prison, the rest of us would find him and kill him."

Moriarty shrugged again. "I know how to play the game. At least I didn't spend twelve years the way you did."

Harry had heard enough. "_Stupify!"_ he bellowed. Moriarty tried to dive away, but Harry was so close to him that it was shorter than a blink of an eye before the spell caught him. He fell to the ground, his head lying near Anderson's feet.

"Well then," said Sherlock. "Are you convinced now?"

Harry looked up at him. Then he nodded.

Turning to Ron and Hermione, he saw the look horror on Hermione's face, and disgust on Ron's.

"I can't believe it," said his ginger friend. "We've got to take him up the castle and tell Dumbledore all of this.''

"Finally," said Sherlock.


	18. The Dementor's Kiss

Chapter Eighteen: The Dementor's Kiss

Harry and Hermione levitated the limp forms of Anderson and Moriarty, with Ron and Watson lighting the way ahead with their wands. Sherlock walked behind Harry, making up the end of their entourage along with Crookshanks, who strutted along the passageway behind.

"I _still_ don't understand how we can just freeze the Whomping Willow like that," Ron said from up in front. "How is there an off-switch for a _tree_?"

"There's always an off-switch," said Sherlock, as if this was common knowledge. "Who plants a tree that could kill you on school grounds without giving it an off-switch? Otherwise people like us who need to use the passageway would get into a lot of trouble."

"And you just found this passageway?" asked Harry.

"Oh yeah," said Sherlock. "I discovered most of the secrets of the school within my first month at Hogwarts."

Harry's mouth fell open. He was sure even Fred and George didn't know all of the school's secrets. "Really?"

"He's not lying," said Watson. "And he refused to let us put them all on the Map."

"Like what?" asked Harry eagerly.

Sherlock smirked at him. "I don't know if anyone ever told you this, Harry," he said. "but your parents made me your godfather."

"Yeah, I knew that," said Harry. He didn't add how the idea had tormented him back when he still believed Sherlock to be guilty.

"Well, I'll be honest, I really have no clue why they did it," said Sherlock.

"Okay...," said Harry, not sure why he was telling him this in such a way.

"Well," said Sherlock, "John and I had this flat on Baker Street in London before I was sent to Azkaban. The landlady adores me, so she probably held onto the flat for us or will let me have it back, so once we turn in Moriarty and clear my name, we'll be welcome to move back in. I'm sure I'm no good at this godfather stuff, I haven't been in your life at all for the past thirteen years, after all, but if you wanted to...you could move into the flat with us."

"What, come and live with you?" asked Harry, surprised.

"You probably want to stay with your aunt and uncle, though," said Sherlock.

"What, the Dursleys? Are you serious?" asked Harry. "No! When are you moving back in? It's in London? When can _I _move in?"

Sherlock still seemed like he wasn't certain Harry knew what he was signing up for. "How do you feel about the violin? Sometimes I play at three in the morning, or don't talk for days on end...that wouldn't bother you?"

Harry turned around to grin at him, not noticing that he was scraping Moriarty's face against the ceiling. "Not at all!"

"Wonderful," said Sherlock. "You can't expect me to be a parent, though," he persisted. "And sometimes I leave potions experiments out all over in the kitchen. Maybe more than sometimes."

"I don't care. I'd love to move in with you and get away from the Dursleys." He really meant it. He could finally leave Privet Drive, and live with one of his parents' closest friends! He would live with Sherlock Holmes in London! Maybe he'd even be able to got straight there after term ended...that would give him the best summer he'd ever had.

"Alright, come on," said Watson from ahead. They were at the end of the tunnel, with the hole in the tree's trunk leading out into the evening. One by one they clambered out of it, Harry and Hermione having to make sure they levitated the bodies in front of them through before following themselves. Once his head was above ground, Harry could see the purple of the sunset's end staining the bottom half of the sky, the red shielded from view by the trees of the Forbidden Forest.

"This way," said Sherlock, indicating the direction opposite Hagrid's cabin, a small dip into a valley apparently leading away from the castle to their right. "It'll be faster, there's a shortcut."

"Okay," said Harry. They all followed him as he led them briskly away, surprisingly strong and agile for someone who had obviously not had a square meal in quite some time.

They hadn't gone far, however, when Hermione stopped and grabbed hold of Harry's sleeve. "Do you hear that?" Harry stopped to listen. There was a sort of rumbling sound coming from somewhere, but Harry couldn't quite tell where, or what it was. "Yeah, I do," he whispered back.

He looked around at the others, but all of their faces were difficult to make out in the dark of the falling evening. Then-

"Centaurs," breathed Sherlock. Then he yelled it: "Centaurs! Everyone follow me!" He took off, running off away from them and leading the party into the forest.

"Sherlock, are you crazy?" yelled Watson after him, but he was running to keep up with him. In a weird moment, Harry was distracted by the sudden realization that the slight limp he'd observed at the beginning of the school year had left his favorite teacher. As he shook his head briefly to refocus, Harry, Ron and Hermione dashed after them, but Harry wasn't sure what to do with Moriarty-Hermione was attempting to levitate Anderson in front of herself as she ran too, but when they reached the trees, it became clear that there was no way they'd be able to keep their pace with their unconscious wards.

"If we're trying to get away from the centaurs, then why are we running _in_to the _forest_?" asked Ron, stopping along with Harry and Hermione a few feet in.

"I don't know," said Hermione. "Maybe he knows a path."

Harry looked around, but he couldn't see Watson or Sherlock anymore. He could see shapes moving around through the forest, though...he squinted his eyes behind his glasses, trying to make out what they were better.

"The centaurs!" said Hermione.

"Do they stampede like this often?" asked Harry over the gathering noise. He wasn't sure what else to call what they were doing-the pounding of hooves supporting their huge bodies was becoming louder and louder, the shouts of the creatures filling the air.

"What if they find us?" asked Ron.

"I don't know!" yelled Harry, trying to overcome the din.

Not sure what else to do, the three of them huddled together, standing over the bodies of Anderson and Moriarty as they waited for the centaurs to pass. Harry had only encountered centaurs once before, and though one of them, Firenze, had been very kind and respectful to him, the others had not. Their hostility had made it clear that Firenze's behavior was that of a minority, perhaps only himself, in the herd.

After several moments, perhaps minutes, the centaurs had past. Straitening up, they looked around and listened for Watson and Holmes, but Harry couldn't find any sign of them. "I'm going to go look for them," he said. "You two stay here with Anderson and Moriarty, okay?"

"What?" said Hermione. "No, Harry!"

"You can't just go into the forest on your own!" said Ron.

"I won't go far," Harry promised. "They're probably coming back for us, anyway. Just wait here, okay? You can send up sparks or something to help me find you again."

If their faces showed their qualms with this plan, Harry couldn't see them and didn't linger to try and make them out and guilt himself into staying. Instead, he quickly set off through the trees in the direction he'd last seen his teacher and godfather go, opposite from the way the centaurs had rushed. After a little ways, he was starting to get worried. Shouldn't he have met them by now? Was he traveling in the wrong direction?

Harry stepped forward with more trepidation now, wondering if he should turn back and return to Ron and Hermione. If they were still on the grounds, they might be able to get back up to the castle and find them on the Map of Private Eyes, and at least get Moriarty into custody.

However, then he thought he heard something. He stopped in his tracks, listening carefully now that he'd stopped making noise of his own. Someone was pleading, and panting heavily. It sounded…it sounded like Sherlock.

"No…," he moaned, his voice deep. "No, please…."

Sherlock didn't seem like the kind of person to say please. Harry tore off in his direction, thankful for his speed.

Sherlock's thin form was crouched by the bank of the Black Lake, just out of the trees and along the forest's rim. He looked as if he had just fallen down, his shoulders hunched as if with the weight of a lifetime of regrets. Then Harry saw them—the dementors. There had to be dozens of them, swirling around and around the lake, levels and levels of the dark creatures in their tattered cloaks, soaring above Harry's godfather, and swooping down upon him in turns as if to taste his soul before they kissed.

"No!" said Harry, increasing his speed and dashing to Sherlock's side.

"No, no, nononono," murmered Sherlock. "John…John, I'm sorry…." His voice was soft, but heavy, his eyelids closed and his breathing shallow.

Harry closed his eyes, trying to get the image of the man before him's tortured face out of his mind, trying to force himself to think of something happy.

_I'm going to go live with my godfather_, he chanted forcefully in his head. _I'm going to go live in London, and get away from the Dursleys._ Yet the cold of the dementors was gripping his own heart now and he couldn't recapture the euphoria that had flushed through his veins mere minutes before.

"_Expecto Patronum!_" said Harry, pointing his wand upwards. A silver mist sprayed from the tip, but it was incorporeal…not a substantial shield, and one of the dementors waved a scabbed, clawlike hand in front of it's hood as if to brush it away. It was moving closer now…it was going to try and kiss one of them.

_No, I have to fight it!_ thought Harry desperately.

"_EXPECTO PATRONUM!" _he shouted, trying to remember all the happy memories he had: celebrating Gryffindor winning the House Cup, spitting out the snitch he'd caught at his first-ever Quidditch Match, sneaking out at night with Ron and Hermione, laughing with Ron and Hermione at the feast last year after Hermione had woken up from being pertrified….

"_EXPECTO PATRONUM!" _yelled Harry again. "_Expecto Patronum…Expecto Patro…Expecto…Expecto…._" But he couldn't do it. He didn't register that Sherlock had passed out against the ground next to him, or that he himself had fallen over onto his back, only that the dementor above him was lowering itself to hover only a foot above him, that it was pulling its hood away from its face with skeletal hands. The dark skin, if that's what it was, was stretched over the shrunken head, with small indents where the eyes should be, no nose. And where there should have been a mouth, there was only a cavernous, gaping hole that was sucking in and out rattling breaths….

The dementor was closing in. It was going to kiss him. All thought had gone from Harry's mind, replaced with only blank horror.

Yet the dementor was moving away…there was some sort of light coming from the distance. Harry didn't have the strength to raise himself and see…there was some sort of pulsing, glowing periphery moving out across the lake. The dementors were clearing…it was impossible, yet it was the only explanation for what seemed to be happening.

There was an animal, a silver Patronus, something large with antlers. It was galloping around the lake, across its surface and forcing the dementors away. Harry squinted weakly in its direction, and saw that it was cantering back to the form of the person who must have cast it on the opposite shore. Illumined by the Patronus, Harry thought he could see who it was…but it couldn't be…it wasn't….

All the light receded and faded from his vision, his mind emptying of the little cognizance he'd managed to hold. Harry's eyes closed and his head fell back, resting on the earth next to Sherlock's.


	19. Hermione's Secret

**Author's Note: This one's a bit longer. And we're almost done! There'll be one more chapter, and then that's it. If you are still reading this, then many, many thanks to you! You're da best. **

Chapter Nineteen: Hermione's Secret

"Shocking turn of events…amazing he was hanging around the grounds again, isn't it, Dumbledore?"

"Yes, I suppose so, Mycroft, but I'm also sure you're not really surprised."

"Hm, indeed. And that Anderson man brought them up?"  
"Yes, our potions professor. He was over the moon at first to have found your brother, but now he seems positively distraught at his capture. You know he's actually come to me with a theory about how he was framed using a pair of million-pound chopsticks and a German juror?"

"Indeed? Well, that's certainly not the only theory…."

"I must say I would be surprised if Sherlock Holmes' brother was the one to not believe his innocence before Philip Anderson, Mycroft."

"My brother has never been innocent, rather had to investigate and provoke people straight from out of the womb…but this matter is something else, Dumbledore."

"Yes, I would quite agree it is. And that you know of others more dangerous than your younger brother who plague our world."

"Hm," said Mycroft Holmes again, his voice reaching Harry's ears around his eyes that he wasn't ready to force open and into the light. His body was heavy, sagging into the bed, perhaps all the bizarre happenings of the day finally catching up to him and settling upon him.

As he had listened to the headmaster and the minister's conversation, he noticed that Mycroft Holmes seemed strangely uncomfortable and weary, and Dumbledore seemed to be subtly trying to convince him of something. Finally, Harry opened his eyes and raised himself slightly, stretching and groaning softly. He saw that he was in the hospital wing, and Hermione was lying in the bed next to him, her face turned towards him and not the door, which was open slightly and permeable to the voices of Dumbledore and Holmes, her face entirely coherent and eyes wide open. She silently raised a finger to her lips, and Harry nodded slightly. He turned and saw that Ron and Professor Watson were lying in the beds opposite them, though they seemed to be unconscious.

"You're awake," said a very small and very tense voice, and Harry saw Professor Hooper coming from her office. One look at her face told him that she was terrified. She seemed a nervous wreck, and her hands were shaking as she held a large slab of chocolate.

"How are they?" asked Harry, gesturing to his friend and teacher.

"They'll be fine," said Professor Hooper, her voice cracking slightly on the last word as she looked past Harry to the door. Hermione sat up in her bed too, and Professor Hooper picked up a small hammer from the table next to Harry's bed and attempted to break up the slab of chocolate. However, he hands were shaking so badly that she wasn't having much success, and she hit her own finger once and flinched noticeably.

"And what about Sherlock Holmes?" asked Harry. "He needs to be in here, he didn't leave again, did he?"

Tears were leaking out of Professor Hooper's eyes. Harry would have felt bad for her, but at this moment her reaction was scaring him more than anything else. "No, they've locked him in Professor Flitwick's office."

"Well, we need to get there, we need to get him so we can all talk to Dumbledore," said Harry.

"Holmes is innocent, Professor, we have to explain what happened," said Hermione urgently.

Professor Hooper gasped a little tried to stop her tears, but to little avail. In a shaky voice, she said "They're going to have the dementors perform the Kiss tonight."

"WHAT?!" yelped Harry, jumping out of bed.

Professor Hooper shook her head in distress, and then covered her face in her hands.

"Ah, you two are awake," said Dumbledore, striding into the room with Mycroft Holmes.

"Professor!" said Harry without delay, turning away from Professor Hooper and running towards Dumbledore. "Sherlock Holmes is innocent! You can't let the dementors kiss him!"

"You've got the wrong man," said Hermione imploringly, looking at Dumbledore and Mycroft Holmes, who looked extremely troubled and was gripping his lime green umbrella. "The real murderer is Jim Moriarty, he framed Holmes."

"Moriarty was killed almost thirteen years ago, young lady," said Mycroft Holmes. He seemed defeated, but as if he wasn't willing to succumb to it.

"You have to hear us out," said Harry, shaking his hands in front of him. "Moriarty can turn into a rat, he was Ron's rat for years, but last night we saw him transform and he was the one who made it look like Sherlock killed all those people, but he really didn't."

"Harry, you need to calm down," said Mycroft Holmes. "You have obviously been very disturbed by this experience, and there was also attempted murder on these grounds earlier today before you even met Sherlock Holmes. Do you really think there was another person on the grounds who was responsible for that?"

"YES!" said Harry and Hermione together.

"It was Moriarty!" insisted Harry. "Moriarty was real, he was here!"

Mycroft Holmes shook his head at him, and Harry turned to Dumbledore desperately, who was regarding him calmly from behind his half-moon spectacles, his blue eyes twinkling slightly. Before Harry or Hermione had said anything else to him, Dumbledore raised a hand and held it out diplomatically between those gathered. "Mycroft, I would like to speak to Harry and Hermione alone for a few minutes." When the minister didn't say anything, he added "They are my students, I wish to speak to them about all that has happened briefly."

He nodded finally, and turned walking out of the room with his umbrella. "Molly, could you please give us a moment, too?" Dumbledore said to Professor Hooper very gently, who was wiping her face with a handkerchief. She nodded, and walked out of the room after Mycroft Holmes, Dumbledore patting her on the arm comfortingly as she went.

As soon as she was out of the door, Harry and Hermione barraged him with explanations.

"Professor, you have to believe us," she Hermione.

"It was Moriarty, he found out about where my parents were, even though Sherlock was the secret keeper and he never told him!"

"So then he told You-Know-Who, and then he started to try and make everyone distrust Holmes."

"And eventually he framed him and he was arrested, but he was able to escape by transforming!"

"Moriarty's an animagus, and we saw him do it tonight in the Shrieking Shack!"

"We're not lying, and I'm _not_ disturbed!"

Dumbledore held up a hand to silence them, and they stopped talking, looking at him with bated breath.

"I do believe you," said Dumbledore, and both Harry and Hermione breathed sighs of relief. They were cut short by him as the headmaster continued, more severely, "However, I am afraid that the word of two underage students will convince few others, including the Minister of Magic. I have already spoken to Sherlock Holmes myself, but his testimony will not be taken seriously, either."

"But Ron and Professor Watson were there, too, and Anderson saw Sherlo—" started Harry.

"Both Mr. Weasley and Professor Watson were hurt by the centaurs, and will not be awoken any time soon," said Dumbledore.

"What?" said Hermione in alarm as both their heads whipped over to their beds.

"They will both recover and be fine in a few hours," said Dumbledore. "We could arouse them, but it would not be prudent at this time, and they need this rest. Professor Anderson, on the other hand, although thoroughly convinced of Mr. Holmes' innocence himself, does not have any credible evidence that shows him in a good light. He was not present for Sherlock's explanation and did not witness Moriarty transform, and all he has to offer for his own testimony was that he saw the three of you in the Shrieking Shack with Professor Watson and Holmes, who stunned him."

Harry and Hermione were silent. The situation seemed very dismal indeed.

"What we need," said Dumbledore, "is more _time_."

"Oooohhhh!" said Hermione, looking upwards as if she had just realized something.

"Miss Granger, I know you understand the rules. _You must not be seen_. It's about twelve thirty in the morning now. I have been in my office all evening, and I shall go and invite Minister of Magic Holmes and Professors Anderson and Hooper there now." He crossed the room, his long silvery blue robes flurrying out behind him slightly, and turned towards them again when he was halfway out the door. "I think three turns should do it."

And with that, he closed the door.

"What?" said Harry incredulously, leaning forwards and his face panicked. "What was any of that supposed to mean, and why did he just leave us here?"

Hermione, however, was pulling something out from under the neck of her robes. "Harry, step a little closer to me."

"Why…," said Harry, doing as she asked. Hermione held out a gold chain, and then looped it around his neck too, Harry having to step forward further to accommodate her. "Hermione, what is this?"

"I'll explain once we've gone; we need to be quick, they'll be more time to explain in a minute. I need you to just be quiet for a little, okay? I'm going to use it, and then we can find some place to hide."

Harry really had no idea what was going on. "Hermione—"

"Look, just trust me, okay?" she said, looking up to meet his eyes.

"Okay, but we have to save Sherlock."

"I know." She slid something along the chain, and Harry saw that it was a small, golden hourglass. Hermione held it up to her eyes, and then carefully turned it upside down three times. Then she held it up with one hand, and took Harry's in the other. Before Harry could do anything, blue-white light surrounded them, and he had to wait several moments for it to pass, several tense, confused and bewildered moments. When it started to seep away from the edges of his vision, which filled with the hospital wing again, Hermione was already pulling the chain from around his neck and dropping it back underneath her robes again.

"Okay," she said, brushing hair from her eyes and to the sides of her face. "It's three thirty now. Where were we at four thirty?"

"What d'you mean, it's three-thirty?" asked Harry, looking around. It certainly was still light outside, though it had been quite dark when they had left, and all the lamps that had been lighting the hospital wing were turned off as sunlight streamed in through the long windows.

"Harry, we have to hurry to hide," said Hermione, gripping his sleeve. "I'll explain in a minute, but I mean _it's three thirty right now_. Come on."

Harry followed her to the door, looking behind him to see that no one else was in the room. As he stepped out of the door behind her, and thought he saw Professor Hooper's office door starting to open.

Hermione led him over to a small broom cupboard that was nearby, and, looking up and down the deserted hallways fervently, opened it up and stepped inside. Harry followed, and closed the door behind him. "Lumos," he said, to light the small closet.

"This," said Hermione, holding out the tiny hourglass, "is a Time-Turner."

"A _what_?" asked Harry, clearly at his most articulate that day.

"A Time-Turner. It's how I've been getting to my classes all year. You can use it to go back in time, and I've been doing the hours over…I got it from Professor McGonagall on our first day back."

Harry's mouth hung open. He couldn't believe that he and Ron had missed this the entire year.

"Dumbledore wanted us to come back in time, to prove Sherlock is innocent or something. We're not supposed to help him escape again, are we?"

Harry tried to shake himself out of his stupor. Time-Turner or not, it still felt like they were pressed for time to save his godfather. "No, it didn't seem like it…remember, he told us that he'd be going to his office, and that he'd been there all evening. So maybe he wants us to bring him to his office?"

"Hmmm," said Hermione thoughtfully. "I think he wants us to bring Moriarty there. He said that he'd be inviting Mycroft Holmes and Professor Anderson and Professor Hooper there, right? Probably so they can see Moriarty."

That made sense to Harry. "So he wants us to all go up there?"

"That seems logical," said Hermione. "By going back in time we'd be able to stop Moriarty from escaping and turn him in—that's the proof we need, isn't it?" Harry nodded. "Oh, if we can manage that without being seen…."

Harry rubbed his eyes vigorously. He didn't know how long he'd been awake for, but he was exhausted now. He had probably been hyped up on adrenaline for much of the evening, and he suspected that was about to happen again soon. "What do you mean, not being seen?" he asked, remembering that Dumbledore had said something like that before he left.

"When you're traveling in time, Harry, it is imperative that you are not seen," said Hermione. "Otherwise, people could realize that you're in two places at once, and then all sorts of paradoxes could occur."

"I think one just did," said Harry. "You would have had to have been seen all year, you just said you were going to classes with the Time-Turner!"

"That's different," said Hermione. "I'd have to not be seen near the place I was in the normal timeline—once I was far enough away, I could be seen by other people, because they wouldn't realize I was somewhere else."

"Okay…. But what do we do now?"

"I guess we have to go find Moriarty. Where would he be?"

"I dunno," said Harry. "If it's three thirty…then we've already gotten the first letter and sent back our reply…so I guess we're going down to Hagrid's, right? So we haven't found Scabbers—Moriarty—yet. Hermione, we have to get down there and get him before we find him!"

"NO!" said Hermione forcefully. "Harry, don't you understand? If we stop ourselves from ever finding Moriarty in the first place, then we'll never have seen him transform, and Sherlock and Watson won't have used him to prove to us that Sherlock is innocent! We may not believe him, and we certainly wouldn't be coming back in time to try and find him as proof if we didn't know he was an animagus. Doing something like that would completely upset the normal timeline, which is what leads us to where we are now!"

"You're right," said Harry, frowning. "Gosh. Um, I guess we'll have to get him after we all come out of the willow then, and before we go down to the forest and I get attacked by the dementors, right?"

"Attacked by dementors? You got attacked by dementors?" said Hermione.

"Oh yeah, I guess you wouldn't know," said Harry. "I'll fill you in in a minute, but first we need to find ourselves outside, right? To make sure we know what's going on so we know when to act."  
"Yes," said Hermione. "We'll have to be careful, though…where will everyone else be?"

Harry thought back. "We were hurrying to get to the owlery because of the message on the wall…so that means that we don't know, remember, we didn't know if the teachers were going to lock the castle down again."

"Oh, you're right," said Hermione, eyes wide. "So we'll have to be extra careful…."

"Alright. We can do this, Hermione, and then we'll just need to find ourselves outside," said Harry, realizing how strange the words were as they came out of his mouth.

They opened the door slightly, and peered around the corridors before leaving. Then, always looking over each other's shoulders, they crept through the castle. Whenever they heard someone coming or started to see someone appear around the edge of a wall, they would duck into a nearby empty classroom or broom cupboard. It didn't seem like the students had been sent back to their common rooms, and if they had, then it was a rather badly enforced curfew.

Finally Harry and Hermione were outside, running along the stone path that led down the hill towards Hagrid's cabin. They were coming a different way than they would have earlier, coming from the owlery. Luckily, they didn't have as far to go from the hospital wing to get there, and Harry could see the action going on near the base of the Whomping Willow.

"There we are," said Hermione. They stood there a moment more, and then she seemed to remember herself and pulled Harry down to hide among some bushes near the vegetable patch. Harry stared intently at the small figure of his past self. "Ouch, I just got walloped by that tree…and so did you…this is _weird…._"

Crookshanks was sliding under the branches, and soon he had pressed the so-called "off-switch" on the willow, freezing the crazed branches. The hawk and the cat were soon gone from view, and Harry watched as he, Ron and Hermione talked for just a moment longer before following them into the trunk.

"This is by far the weirdest thing we have ever done," said Harry in awe. _And that says something_, he thought, realizing that it really was true.

"Okay, so I guess now we'll just have to wait until we come out," said Hermione. "We had him when we went down to the forest after Sherlock, right?"

"Yeah, we did," said Harry. "He must have transformed once Sherlock and I were attacked by the dementors and apparently Ron and Watson were hurt by the centaurs. Weren't you there, what happened?" inquired Harry.

"I was waiting with Ron for you, but then when none of you came back we started to get worried. I had left to come and find you, but I didn't get very far. The centaurs came back and demanded to know what we were doing in their forest. We couldn't really answer them, so they pulled their bows on us…I was knocked unconscious from behind. I'm not sure what happened, really, but it may have been a centaur, and it could have been Moriarty…I didn't really think of that until now…but he could have done it, couldn't he?"

Harry made a noncommittal noise from his throat. "Do you think the centaurs are in league with him?"

"I don't know…probably not though, they don't like to get involved in human affairs, much, do they?"  
"That's right," said Harry.

"But what about getting attacked by the dementors? What happened there?" asked Hermione.

Harry filled her in on what had happened. "I was looking for Sherlock in the forest, but I couldn't find him there. Eventually I heard his voice, though, and I followed it out of the trees and to the shore of the Black Lake. He was there, but there were loads of the dementors, too. I was trying to cast a Patronus, but I couldn't do much, there were so many of them and they were so strong. One of them lowered its hood, and I think it was about to Kiss me."

Hermione clapped her hands over her mouth, looking shocked.

"The weird thing is, that's when some sort of white light from the other side of the lake came," (Hermione looked even more upset, as if worried about his sanity) "like a giant Patronus" (Hermione's face relaxed a little) "and it sort of swept all the dementors away. I don't know what happened next, I blacked out then."

Hermione nodded sympathetically, lowering her hands. "I heard Professor Dumbledore talking to Mycroft Holmes about that," she said. "They said that the dementors were moving back to their stations outside the grounds when we were all found. It seemed like they thought a really powerful wizard must have conjured it."

Harry stared at his shoelaces. He had an idea of who he thought might have done it, but it had been very hard to see, and he was nervous about confiding his idea in Hermione.

"Hermione…," he said nervously. "I think I may have seen who it was."

"Really?" responded Hermione, looking curious.

"It was really hard to see, and I was losing consciousness, but…it looked…like my dad."

"Oh, Harry," said Hermione, looking hurt and nervous. "Harry…your dad's…."

"Dead, I know," said Harry, looking at the ground. Then he raised his head up to look at her. "That's just what it looked like."

"Well, like you said, it was dark, and…," Hermione trailed off, looking at him carefully. She seemed like she didn't want to hurt his feelings, but she was really worried about him. "Um, anyway…we have to catch Moriarty before he escapes."

"Yes," said Harry. "And you think that he was still knocked out and human when the centaurs came?"

"Yes," said Hermione. "I'm pretty sure."

"_Pretty sure?"_

"Well, yeah, but I'm almost positive."

Harry sighed. "I guess that's the best we have. What are we going to do with him when we've got him?"

"Professor Dumbledore said that he'd be in his office all evening. Does he want us to bring him to him in his office? We can't do that, then the past Dumbledore would see us!"

"But it was Dumbledore who sent us on this mad mission in the first place! Surely we can—"

"No, Harry," asserted Hermione. "We _must_ not be seen. This Dumbledore won't have sent us yet. "

"Then how are we going to get Moriarty? We can't just bring him back with us to the hospital wing, we already told everyone that he'd escaped and we didn't have him."

"Maybe Professor Dumbledore told us when he'd be in his office," said Hermione thoughtfully and slowly, "so we'd know when he _wasn't_."

"You mean…so that we could go there when he'd left, and not before?"

Hermione nodded. "That way we can put Moriarty in his office when he leaves after the Minister arrives and he comes to see us. But then we're going to have to get back into the hospital wing right afterwards, so we're there when he leaves, and we leave…."

The bizarrity of the situation was unnerving. "I think I know another way into the hospital wing from the Map…if only we had that with us right now, or the _cloak_…." The one time they really, _really_ needed to not be seen he didn't have his _invisibility cloak._ Life really was so frustrating.

Hermione looked at him as if to almost say "you'd better." "All the teachers are standing outside, so we're going to _have_ to get in another way."

"Mm," Harry agreed. "And Dumbledore will probably be leaving his office around twelve, at least, right?"

"I think so," said Hermione. "It was twelve thirty when we left."

"Right," said Harry. "So now we wait."

"Now we wait," confirmed Hermione.

It was some time before the light began to leave the sky, doing so in vibrant colors that dripped from the center of the sky down to the edges of the horizon, leading Harry's eyes to the forms of their past selves and companions emerging from the Whomping Willow.

"There we are," said Harry, parting the leaves of the shrub with his hands and peering through them like a documentary maker on the African savannah.

"Yes," said Hermione, watching too.

"We're going to need to follow ourselves," said Harry.

"Yes," said Hermione again, her nerves evident in her voice now. "We need to be careful."

"I know," said Harry, and he slowly got up, Hermione following suit. "It'll be easier now that it's getting dark."

They saw the tall form of Sherlock gesture to the others and start to lead them away from the tree, and the odd group follow—Watson and Ron, and Harry and Hermione, levitating the limp forms of Anderson and Moriarty in front of themselves. Once all there backs had turned, Harry lithely stepped around the rocks and plants where they had been and silently followed the party ahead, stepping lightly along the ground with Hermione behind.

Soon they paused, watching those in front of them stop, realizing that the centaurs were approaching. Sherlock and Watson dashed off into the woods, and the students tried to follow, but were soon held up by Anderson and Moriarty. Harry and Hermione stayed off the to side, Hermione gripping Harry's robes and Harry keeping an arm around her, hoping they wouldn't be seen.

Harry could hear their voices as he, Ron and Hermione yelled to each other over the sound of the herd moving closer through the trees, and then he waited, trembling with Hermione as their past selves waited for the centaurs to pass. This was their only chance—if they didn't catch Moriarty, Sherlock's soul would be sucked out through his mouth back in present time. You couldn't use the Time-Turner _twice_, right? And do hours over within the hours you were doing over? Somehow Harry thought that just might break space-time. He didn't know the boundaries of magic, and it would be even more difficult to avoid detection when there were _three_ copies of themselves running around.

The sounds of the centaurs died away, and Harry looked at Hermione. "I'm leaving now." And it was true, the past-Harry was talking to his friends briefly before turning and making his way between the trees and out of sight. He was quickly lost from view to them, even more distant and difficult to see in the dark from where they were. "This is when it happens, right?"

"Yes," breathed Hermione.

In a few moments, Harry heard the centaurs returning. It was difficult to make out the conversation from where they were, but Harry could follow it, helped by the explanation Hermione had given earlier. Clearly they were arguing about something, Hermione and Ron struggling to defend themselves. Then, Harry saw the limp forms of Anderson and Moriarty, long since deposited on the ground, begin to stir. Just as one of the centaurs stepped forward to attack Ron, who jumped back in alarm, Moriarty sprung up from the ground, and pointing a wand at Hermione, who had her back to him. A jet of red light shot out of it, and she crumpled to the ground. Next to him, Hermione gave a small gasp, realizing what had happened.

The two of them ran forward, knowing this was their chance. The centaurs would see them, but chaos was beginning to break out and Harry doubted that it would matter. Ron fell to the ground under a centaur's hooves, and Hermione screamed, drawing the centaurs attention. Moriarty whipped around to face them, and Harry aimed his wand at him, bellowing "_STUPEFY!"_ at the top of his lungs. Moriarty deflected it, a snide smile curling the edge of his mouth, but Hermione's arm appeared over Harry's shoulder with the speed of a bullet, before he could even register it, and a jet of light shot from it to hit Moriarty right in the face as Hermione covered for Harry.

Harry didn't have much time to relish the look of surprise on Moriarty's face—he was attempting to transform. In a split second, the man was replaced with a rat, and the course of Hermione's spell almost seemed to bend to compensate—no, it _must _have bent—and it found its mark, the rat form of Moriarty going limp.

"DUCK!" Harry yelled as he saw the centaurs nearest lunge for them. They dropped to the ground, almost on top of each other, and Harry just managed to cast a shield charm over them, shouting "_Protego!"_

Ron had fallen unconscious outside their bubble, but Harry and Hermione were protected from the angry centaurs by the spell. Anderson was still rolling around a few feet away, apparently incoherent and not about to put in the effort to stand up.

"What should we do?" asked the deep voice of one of the centaurs from about where they were crouched.

"They are only foals," said another. "We may as well leave them. They seem to want to fight among themselves, anyway."

"They have still violated our territory without invitation!" insisted the first belligerently.  
"There is another this way!" called the voice of another centaur, the pounding of a single set of hooves marking the air as he approached. "Leave them, they will not be bothering us again. This one is adult, we must attend to him."

The other centaurs seemed to agree, and luckily, amazingly, they left, following the one who had just approached into the woods. Once they had gone, Harry shakily removed the shield charm and helped Hermione to her feet.

"Wow," he said, running a hand through his hair. "I can't believe they just left like that."

"Me neither," said Hermione in concurrence. "They'll be going after Watson, won't they?"

"Yeah," said Harry, bending down to check on Ron. "He doesn't seem badly hurt, just knocked out. I wish we could help him, but Professor Hooper said that he and Professor Watson would be fine, so I guess we'll just have to leave him."

"Right," said Hermione. "We can't disrupt this timeline. That means we need to get out of here, Anderson's probably going to wake up soon."

Harry looked over at the potions teacher doubtfully, but saw that Anderson was probably about to get up in a few moments. Was he really not paying attention to them talking? Apparently not, he was still a bit out of it from being stunned, unlike how Moriarty had been.

"Right," said Harry.

"I'll get Moriarty," said Hermione. "_Mobilicorpus_," she said, and the small rodent rose into the air.

The rat was far easier to maneuver, especially since this time they were moving away from the trees in the opening air, not trying to enter them. Harry and Hermione rushed away from Anderson and Ron, trying to get up to the castle.

When they were out of sight of the scene they had just left, between the Whomping Willow and the entrance of the castle near the owlery, Harry stopped, and Hermione did so with him. "Wait," he said. "Dumbledore won't have left his office yet, and people might still be in the halls, it's barely nighttime."

"You're right," said Hermione.

"We should wait out here, and see if we can find out who cast the Patronus," said Harry.

"What?" said Hermione. "Wait, Harry, no!"

But Harry was already leaving, running back down to the lake, determined. The thought had entered his mind earlier as they waited for themselves to emerge from the passageway in the Whomping Willow, and now he knew that this was his only chance—could it have been some sort of version of his dad, some magical representation of him? Was there a ghost of his father out there? No, he'd looked solid, but Harry had to find out, and whoever had cast the Patronus was probably just about to emerge, it hadn't been long after he had left Ron and Hermione in the last timeline.

Harry sprinted harder. He was drawn by the light of something faint and silver, his own feeble attempts at a flickering Patronus as he tried to fight off the dementors next to Sherlock. Harry came to an abrupt stop, too anxious, too caught up in the moment, his heart beating too hard and fast for him to remember to try and catch his breath. There, in the dying light of the sunset, blackened further by the presence of the dementors, he could see himself from across the lake freezing in terror as a single dementor approached him, lowering its hood. _It was going to happen. The dementor was going to perform the Kiss._

There was only one thing to do. Harry didn't think—the emotions building up inside him decided for him, not even separating themselves from one another, but blending into a cloud of horror and joy and panic and care and love and hope within his chest. All of the things he had felt that night struggled to express themselves within a single spell.

"_EXPECTO PATRONUM!"_

The incantation was voiced with all the strength he could muster. Out of his wand burst a gigantic creature which galloped across the surface of the lake, made of a sliver, powerful light that swept away the dementors, scattering them out of its path. It charged down the one that had been bearing down on Harry, and all those around him and Sherlock left. In a mass exodus, all the hooded wraiths floated away from the space and left above the trees of the Forbidden Forest, their black forms chilling against the sky.

Harry saw his past self crumple to the ground next to Sherlock, and the animal that was his Patronus cantered over the lake back to him, and he got a clear view of it for the first time.

"A stag," whispered Harry, reaching a hand out to touch it. It was a large animal, with a smooth, strong body and antlers, slightly taller than Harry himself. He smiled in spite of himself, bringing his hand up to its face. It seemed to look back at him.

"Harry!" gasped a voice, and Harry turned to see Hermione coming to a stop behind him, the rat still bobbing in front of her. Distracted, Harry saw his Patronus fade and fall away next to him out of the corner of his eye, and turned to catch a last look at it. It was gone.

"Harry, what did you do?" asked Hermione.

It finally fell into place for him with her question. "It was me," said Harry. "I cast the Patronus. Blimey, I didn't realize that's who it was…but it doesn't matter, right? I saw myself, but I was confused, and now I understand."

Hermione didn't seem to quite agree. They argued briefly, but then she accepted his point of view. It had been risky, but it was how things had happened, so by casting the Patronus he had fulfilled the timeline they weren't supposed to alter. In agreement, they trudged back up to the school, catching their breath as they went.

Soon Harry had to light his wand so they could see where they were going, Hermione's being occupied with keeping Moriarty there in front of them. When they had reached the castle, they carefully re-entered it. Harry's watch read seven-thirty, and they still had time to pass. Hearts pumping madly, they made their way up the stairs to the landing where Dumbledore's office was located, taking as many backways as they could to avoid people. They didn't see many, but whenever someone started to approach them, they would hide themselves with the upmost urgency, panic building. However, they had both agreed it would be best to go up as soon as they could—they couldn't risk being late.

Finally they were on the corridor containing the stone gargoyle that guarded the entrance to Dumbledore's office. They hid themselves in a broom cupboard (there sure did seem to be a lot of those at Hogwarts) opposite the statue, and cracked it open slightly as to be able to observe the office entrance.

Eventually the gargoyle shifted aside, and Dumbledore appeared, walking out of his office briskly and disappearing around the corner of the corridor.

"He's left," whispered Hermione. "Okay, we'll have to get in now."

They emerged from the broom cupboard and approached the gargoyle nervously. It eyed them expectantly.

"Er," said Harry. "The password. That's right."

"What?" asked Hermione. "There's a password?"

"Yeah…," said Harry. "Okay, erm, sherbert lemon."

The gargoyle remained unmoved, and blinked at him once.

"Okay," said Harry. "Chocolate Frog. Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Bean. Peppermint toad. That's a thing, right? Er…cauldron cake. Licorice wand."

The gargoyle sprung aside. "Licorice wand?" asked Harry. "That was…surprisingly simple."

Hermione nodded fervently, and they bounded up the staircase as fast as they could, eager to get into the safety of Dumbledore's deserted office.

When they pushed open the wooden door to enter, Harry looked around nervously. All the portraits were staring down at them. He had forgotten about them. None of them spoke, however, and Harry just hoped that they wouldn't try to alert anyone else that two students had just walked into the headmaster's office while he wasn't there.

"Do we just leave him here?" asked Hermione, looking around uncertainly. The rat-Moriarty was still in the air in front of her.

"Look," said Harry, pointing. On one of the window sills, near a large bookshelf, was a large cage, as one might keep a large bird in. He looked around the office and saw that Fawkes, Dumbledore's pet phoenix that Harry had learned about last year, was preening his magnificent plumage on a perch at the other end of the room.

"How could he…he hasn't been time traveling too, has he?" asked Hermione.

"I don't think so," said Harry, marveling at the strangeness of their headmaster. "He's just…weird, you know? He knows things." Harry thought about Dumbledore's eccentric manner and how his blue eyes would twinkle and could get the impression that they were x-raying their subject.

"I guess we just put him in here," he said.

"Looks like it," said Hermione, still sounding bewildered. Harry crossed to the cage, and opened it, holding the door ajar for his friend to maneuver the rat in. She did so, and then he snapped the door shut and locked it with his wand.

"I'd better put an unbreakable charm on it, so he can't transform and break out if he wakes up," said Hermione.

"Okay," said Harry. He watched as she tapped the cage with her wand.

"Let's get back to the hospital wing now," she said. "We'll need to get there and go in a back way before Dumbledore leaves us, so we can go back in right as we leave. No one can know we've been gone."

"Right," said Harry. "I think I know a way."

"You _think_?"

"It's the best we've got, isn't it?"

Several minuets later, the two of them were crawling through a very dark, very dusty tunnel in the stone of the school.

"I. Cannot. Believe. This," said Hermione.

"Believe what?" asked Harry.

"That there just happens to be a tunnel like this, leading through the floor beneath the hospital wing, that will apparently open up the floor in Professor Hooper's office! And that it's so _small!_" She said, trying to give herself a little more room from him, but finding that there really was none.

"It's Hogwarts, it has tons of weird things like this. More secrets than anyone'll ever find, I think. I don't think even Sherlock Holmes found them all. I wonder if the Weasley twins know any he doesn't. And hey, I never said it'd be ladylike!"

Hermione scoffed.

"Okay, let's try and lift this stone," said Harry, now that they had reached the end of the tunnel.

They pointed their wands at it, and with the swish and flick, they lifted the stone up above their heads. It rose into the air, and they carefully laid it down on the floor before climbing out. That was a bit of a struggle, but they managed it, and then gratefully stretched their limbs.

Once the stone slab had been replaced, filling the floor and the fact that it led to anything at all, or even detached, imperceptible, they went to the door to listen.

"Miss Granger, I know you understand the rules. _You must not be seen_. It's about twelve thirty in the morning now. I have been in my office all evening, and I shall go and invite Minister of Magic Holmes and Professors Anderson and Hooper there now," Dumbledore was saying.

Harry was impressed. Their timing was perfect.

"What?" Harry heard his own voice say incredulously from the other side of the door. "What was any of that supposed to mean, and why did he just leave us here?"

"Harry, step a little closer to me," came Hermione's voice.

"Why…," said Harry. Then a moment later, "Hermione, what is this?" She must have pulled out the Time-Turner.

"I'll explain once we've gone; we need to be quick, they'll be more time to explain in a minute. I need you to just be quiet for a little, okay? I'm going to use it, and then we can find some place to hide."

"Hermione—"

"Look, just trust me, okay?" said Hermione's voice, calm, but imploring.

"Okay, but we have to save Sherlock."

"I know."

After a minute, Hermione opened the door, just a crack. There was no one there in the room.

The two of them stepped out, taking their places in the middle of the room where they had just left. They were back where they'd started.


	20. Back to Baker Street

**And here it is! If you stuck with me until the end, then my sincerest thanks to you, and I really hope you have liked it! You win…a conclusion! Happy reading. –randomperson5972**

Chapter Twenty: Back to Baker Street

After a few moments Professor Hooper re-entered the room, still looking very upset. Harry realized that she must be worried about the Kiss being done to Sherlock—they had been friends, and Watson had said she was one of the few who believed him innocent.

"I'm going to be going to Professor Dumbledore's office now," she said tearfully, still having difficulty controlling herself. "You two need to stay here and rest. There's lots of chocolate, I want you to keep eating."

Harry nodded, and, taking his cue from Hermione, tried to act more glum. They weren't supposed to know what—or whom—would soon be found in Professor Dumbledore's office, and be upset that no one had taken their story seriously.

"Well," said Professor Hooper insecurely. "I'm going to lock you in. I expect I'll be back sometime later tonight. Try and get some sleep." She turned and left the room, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her robes as she went.

Harry was exhausted, he didn't know how many hours he'd been awake now without sleeping, but there was no way that he was going to be able to sleep.

He and Hermione sat down on their respective beds, and Hermione sighed heavily. "What do you think will happen now?"

"They'll find Moriarty there. I bet Dumbledore will try to make him transform, he said he believed our story."

"Yes," said Hermione. "And then I guess they'll get a confession out of him, and then they'll have to question Sherlock. They'll have to listen to him this time."

"Yeah," said Harry. "That Mycroft Holmes…I bet he'll really be happy that Sherlock's innocent, he didn't seem pleased with the order to have him Kissed, even if he acts like he doesn't like him very much."

"He is his brother, right?" asked Hermione.

"Yeah," said Harry.

The two of them waited yet again that night, and after about half and hour, Professor McGonagall appeared at the door of the hospital wing. They both stood up, eager to hear what news she was about to give them.

"The headmaster wants to see you two in his office," she said, looking very frazzled. "He wants to talk to you about the…incidents of the night, and Sherlock Holmes."

"What's going on, Professor?" asked Harry quickly, following her out of the room with Hermione. Professor McGonagall locked the door behind them and led them down the corridor briskly.

"Sherlock Holmes' guilt is to be examined more closely. Apparently there is a chance that he may be innocent…another who may have committed his crimes was captured tonight. I don't know much, I just received a message from the headmaster myself."

"That's great!" said Harry excitedly.

Professor McGonagall eyed him questioningly over her shoulder, but marched them onwards. "And you are completely convinced of his innocence, Potter?"

"Yes!" said Harry. "Ron and Hermione and I heard the whole thing from him tonight, about how Jim Moriarty is an animagus and was really the one who turned my parents in to Voldemort and framed Sherlock."

"It's true, Professor," said Hermione.

"And I suppose I shouldn't ask _why_ you were all outside alone and after curfew to interact with Mr. Holmes?"

Harry and Hermione looked at each other and both felt fell silent. After everything else that had happened, they had quite forgotten about that particular bit of rule breaking.

"I thought not," Professor McGonagall muttered to herself.

They walked the rest of the way in silence, and after Professor McGonagall had given the password, Harry and Hermione jumped up the stairs after her.

When they entered the office, it was full of people—Dumbledore serenely sitting in his grand, high-backed chair behind his desk, Anderson standing to the left looking nearly ecstatic, Professor Hooper next to him, completely subjected to her emotions and her make-up smeared, and Mycroft Holmes standing up straight next to her, eyeing her disapprovingly out of the corner of his eyes and gripping his umbrella with hands whose knuckles had whitened. On Dumbledore's left, Sherlock lounged in a chair with his hands tied in ropes, but despite this his mouth was in a slight smile, pleased and almost a little smug. Moriarty, on the other hand, was between Sherlock and Dumbledore, with ropes binding his arms and legs and a gag over his mouth, standing stiffly, his face furious.

"Excellent," said Dumbledore, smiling under his long, silver mustache. "We're all here now. Now, it is my understanding that Harry and Hermione were with Sherlock Holmes for part of this evening, and they heard his story from him first hand. That is correct, is it not?" he asked them.

Harry tried not to smile too much, this didn't seem like the right atmosphere. However, Dumbledore was looking at him with almost amusement, as if he found the whole situation entertaining in how they were sharing the secret of how they had used the Time-Turner, and as if he were immensely proud of how they had performed their mission. "Yes," he and Hermione said at the same time.

"Well, could you two tell us, from the beginning, what happened to you tonight, and relate to us Mr. Holmes' story again, so we can confirm it?"

"Should we start after I finished my exam?" asked Harry.

"If that's where the explanation starts, then yes," said Dumbledore encouragingly.

"Oh," said Harry, his eyes going wide.

"What?" asked Hermione quietly.

He had just remembered Professor Yao's prediction. Now, the words, seeming then to have made no sense and describe something that wasn't possible, clicked in his mind into a completed puzzle that could finally be understood.

Harry thought fast, and realized that the prophecy would reveal that he and Hermione had used the Time-Turner, and decided to leave it out of the story. "So, Hermione had her Ancient Runes exam, and then Ron and I had gone up to the North Tower to test in Divination. I was the last to go, so after I finished testing, I went back to the Gryffindor common room to find Ron and Hermione…."

They switched back and forth between narrating, and between the two of them they explained how Harry had wanted to go talk to them in the owlery for some privacy, and how they had seen the writing on the wall and received a letter addressed to Sherlock. They related how they had acted impulsively to save the people Moriarty was holding captive, including Hagrid, and then about how they had followed Crookshanks and Sherlock into the Whomping Willow and found Watson there—about the story Sherlock and Watson had given and how they had seen Moriarty transform, and then about what had happened by the forest and by the lake where Harry and Sherlock were attacked by the dementors.

Professor McGonagall huffed at how they had decided to act without finding a teacher, and Mycroft Holmes seemed reserved and as if he was hiding behind the mask of a disinterested face. Dumbledore, however smiled benignly at them as they related the events of the evening, and Sherlock smirked and eyed them approvingly. He, at least, seemed to think they were right to do things themselves, though he also seemed bored in his chair, even if this meeting was about whether or not he was innocent.

In return, Dumbledore told them that they still weren't sure who had done the graffiti on the wall that said "Get Sherlock"; however, Harry had the impression that Sherlock knew, from the way he regarded Dumbledore as he said this. Harry made a mental note to ask him about it later. The student who Moriarty had captured had been Hannah Abbot, but she was safe now and had been unharmed. Harry and Hermione were much relieved by this, Hannah had Herbology with them and was a very kind girl, even if she did have strange theories about Sherlock-resembling robots.

Dumbledore also had looked pointedly at Mycroft Holmes when Harry described how close the dementor had come to kissing him. Once they were finished, he said to him "You see, Mycroft? Clearly the dementors should never have been posted near this school. They are not an easily controlled bunch, and I find it extremely disturbing that they would almost administer the Kiss to an innocent student without authorization."

"Yes, I see, Dumbledore," said Mycroft Holmes. "I'll be having their immediate removal seen to."

"Thank you," said Dumbledore.

"And you'll not going to need them looking for me anymore, brother," said Sherlock from his seat.

"Well," said the Minister distastefully, although he seemed to agree. "There is one more item of business before we can pronounce you innocent, Sherlock."

"Oh?" said Sherlock. "Surely _you_ can deduce the truth from all we've presented you with, Mycroft."

"We haven't yet heard a testimony from James Moriarty," said Professor McGonagall.

Mycroft Holmes looked at Anderson, who eagerly offered him a small bottle containing something that looked remarkably like water. He crossed over to Moriarty, who seemed to smile at him slyly, his eyes narrowed, though it was difficult to tell with the gag over his mouth. He seemed to be under the body-bind jinx, however, and was unable to move. Almost as if afraid of getting his hands dirty, he quickly ripped the gag away from his mouth and pushed back Moriarty's head, tilting the bottle of liquid back and letting a few drops fall into his mouth. The Minister then stepped back a little, waiting.

"Veritaserum," said Dumbledore to Harry and Hermione, the latter of which gave a small "oh!" "It's a very powerful truth-telling potion, and we'll be able to hear what Moriarty has to say ourselves."

This made sense to Harry. He wondered why they hadn't given this to Sherlock before he was taken off to Azkaban—it seemed like a solid way to tell if someone had committed a crime or not. Perhaps it was just too convenient to be used often.

Harry watched as Moriarty's eyes glazed over and seemed to dull, as if he were no longer alert.

"Are you James Moriarty?" asked Mycroft Holmes, his voice businesslike and clipped.

"Yes," came the response. It was flat—emotionless.

"Were you a spy for the Dark Lord prior to his downfall?"

"Yes."

There was a slight gasp from Professor Hooper across the room. Everyone else was silent, staring at him intently, even eagerly in Anderson's case.

"Did you give the Dark Lord information that led him to Greg and Lily Potter so they could be killed?"

"Yes." Harry's fists clenched at his sides.

"Are you an unregistered animagus?"

"Yes."

"Did you cause an explosion at St. Mungo's hospital several years ago that killed multiple Muggles?"

"Yes."

"To your knowledge, has Sherlock Holmes ever been a spy for the Dark Lord?  
"No."

"Did he have any voluntary part in revealing the location of Greg and Lily Potter?"  
"No."

"Did he have any part in killing the Muggles at St. Mungo's?"

"No." Sherlock looked pointedly at Mycroft Holmes, who looked back at him with his lips pursed, as if he thought he was being much too informal about the whole affair.

"Is that it, Dumbledore?" asked the Minister, turning to address him.

"I think so," said Dumbledore smiling.

"Well…it's most disturbing this was not cleared up properly by the Ministry until now," he said grudgingly. "The _Daily Prophet_'s going to have a field day…Sherlock innocent after all this time, and all the attention we just raised about the search for him and everything…."

"So nice to know the family's behind you," said Sherlock sarcastically. "Can I have these ropes off now? And I'll be needing my wand back from the Ministry. Oh, don't give me that look, Mycroft, I know you kept it."

"Fine," said Mycroft Holmes, with much contempt in his voice. Sherlock grinned at him, his face transforming into a rather frightening look, if Harry was honest with himself.

With a flick of his wand, the ropes had vanished, and Sherlock stood up, stretching. Professor Hooper rushed across the room and fell upon him, sobbing into his shoulder uncontrolledly. Sherlock looked quite awkward, a look of surprise and mild disgust crossing his face, then uncertainty as he patted her back quickly, a crease appearing on the bridge of his nose.

"Um, there, there, Molly," he said.

"I thought they were going to let them kiss you," she said, pulling away and looking up at him.

"Your concern was unnecessary, Molly. I would not have allowed that to happen."

Harry couldn't help but think that it was really _him_ who hadn't allowed it to happen, but he didn't say anything.

Professor Hooper looked around the room and seemed to realize where she was, then blushed a terrific shade of crimson, and stepped away from Sherlock hastily. He looked a little relieved at this, but then held up a hand at Anderson, who looked ready to speak. "Anderson, your opinion is not necessary here. We have Moriarty to give us enough crazy in this room."

Anderson seemed affronted, but only for a moment, as he continued to look joyful at the situation. Mycroft Holmes rolled his eyes noticeably.

"If you don't mind, Dumbledore," he said briskly, "I'll be heading back to the Ministry now. I'll need to arrange a few things, and then I can return tomorrow to collect him," he gestured to Sherlock with his umbrella, "and clear up everything at the Ministry."

"Not at all," said Dumbledore, smiling. "And you'll be taking Mr. Moriarty, too? Perhaps you could take the dementors with you also, and have them escort him to Azkaban."

"Yes, I suppose so," said the Minister distractedly. "Well, then." With that, he levitated Moriarty's bound form off the ground a few inches and exited the room.

"Well, Sherlock," said Dumbledore. "I certainly am glad we were able to help you out with all of that. And I must say I am relieved to hear the truth from you and have it come out."

"Yes," said Sherlock. "And once I've sorted out everything out at the Ministry with Mycroft, I'll be able to return to Baker Street…no doubt the aurors will have plenty for me to look at that's piled up over the years."

"No doubt," said Dumbledore, still smiling.

"I need a bath," said Sherlock, frowning. Harry grinned.

Harry didn't get to see Sherlock over the next few days, but Ron and Professor Watson were released from the hospital wing the very next day, and Harry got to talk to them once he'd woken up himself after starting to catch up on sleep. Ron was disappointed he'd had to miss the ordeal with the Time-Turner, but indignant that Hermione had kept the secret from them all year.

"We're supposed to be your _friends_," he said, though he wasn't angry.

"Ron, it was only for schoolwork," she insisted. "In fact, I gave it back to Professor McGonagall this morning."

"_What?_" asked Ron.

"I just can't take another year like this one," she said regretfully. "I've dropped Muggle Studies, and now without that and Divination, I'll be able to have a normal schedule."

Harry had gone to visit Professor Watson that afternoon, right after lunch. He'd found him in his office, looking at the Map of Private Eyes.

"Oh, Harry!" he said, looking up when Harry knocked on the door. "Good to see you. I'm sorry about what happened last night, splitting up in the forest."

"It's fine," said Harry, taking a seat across from him. "How are you?"

"Just fine. Professor Hooper is a skilled Healer, and the centaurs didn't hurt me too badly. Still not a werewolf," he added with a slight frown.

Harry laughed, and Watson joined in. "Learning anything new from the Map, Professor?" Harry asked.

"You know, Harry, if you're going to be moving in with Sherlock, I think we'll be seeing each other a lot more," said Watson. "And at this point, I think that as long as we're outside of class, you can call me John."

"Er, really?" asked Harry, who had not been expecting this.

"Yeah," said Watson.

"Okay…John," said Harry, frowning and smiling a little at the same time. "Are you moving back in with him, too?" Harry had been thinking about moving in with his godfather all morning. He hadn't heard anything else from him about the matter since their conversation in the passageway coming out of the Whomping Willow, but the offer still stood, as far as he knew. Leaving the Dursley's seemed possible again.

"No, I don't think so," said John. "I'll be staying where I am for now… though visiting everyday, probably."

Harry smiled.

"I'll warn you, though, he's difficult to get used to," John said. "If he hasn't changed, he'll be one of the messiest people you ever meet, and he doesn't have much regard for other people's things."

Harry grinned. "I think we'll get along fine. It's going to be…different, though."

John smiled at him, and looked down at the Map. "As for this…I was really just reliving old memories. They're not quite so painful anymore. And I think that you, Ron and Hermione will have more use for this than I will, so perhaps I ought to give it back to you."

"Really?" asked Harry, taking it from him.

"Yes," said John. "I'm sure you three will think of ways to use it."

"Were you really angry at us for having it at first?"

"I was worried," said John. "I didn't think Sherlock was guilty of course, but it did not seem like a safe object to have lying around."

Harry nodded. They talked a little while longer, John wanting to clear up a few of the details with Harry about what had happened last night.

Harry wanted to ask his about his Patronus, but he didn't want to let on what had happened with the Time-Turner, so he made it sound as if he'd been a little more successful with his attempts before passing out.

"I think I managed to cast a full Patronus, before the dementors got to me," he said.

"Really?" asked John, looking interested. "What did it look like?"

"It was a stag," said Harry.

"That's very impressive, Harry," said John. "A full Patronus like that, that takes the shape of an animal at your age is no small achievement."

"I was just wondering," Harry said slowly, "about what kind of animal my dad transformed into. Was it a…?"

John smiled. "No, he wasn't a stag. He was a large dog, actually."

"Really?"

"Yep. The stag is your own, Harry."

Harry thought about his Patronus for a moment. What did that say about his character, the stag?

They talked a little longer, discussing the end of the year and the night before.

"I'm impressed you aren't in more shock from all that happened, Harry," said John.

"It's June," answered Harry. "Something big and dangerous was bound to happen soon."

The next day, Harry received a letter from Sherlock at breakfast. When Hedwig swooped down to give it to him, Harry's heart leaped at the sight of her, and he made a space for her on the table, letting her have some of his bacon before flying off.

"Is it from Sherlock?" asked Hermione, looking at the letter.

"I think so," said Harry eagerly, opening it. It was a small piece of parchment, with only four sentences written on it. Harry read them out loud after he had skimmed them himself.

_Back in London now, my name has been officially cleared, and my thanks to you and the others for helping with that. I'll be there to pick you up from the Hogwarts Express in a few days, and then I can take you back to the flat. Sure you want to come? Could be dangerous. –SH_

Harry's heart was soaring. Sherlock had remembered his invitation for Harry to come and live with him, and already arranging to make it so!

Ron snorted. "Since when is anything we do _not_ dangerous? And it seems like everything is dangerous with him."

"You know," said Hermione thoughtfully, "there does seem to be an unusual amount of danger in the Wizarding World. A lot more for kids our age than in the Muggle World."

"I guess you're right," said Harry. "Do you have a quill, Hermione?"

Hermione, as always, did, and Harry wrote back his reply, deciding to adopt a similar signature for this purpose.

_I'm glad everything's going well for you. Of course I still want to come—I've probably never lived without some kind of danger before. Can't wait to see you there. –HP_

The rest of the term passed in a blaze of sunshine. The graffiti on the wall had been cleaned off by Filch, and both Professors Hooper and Anderson seemed inordinately cheerful of late. The piece about Sherlock being innocent had come out in the _Daily Prophet _the day before term ended. It largely blamed the Ministry for not properly investigating his case, and it only acknowledged that Sherlock had appeared at Hogwarts with Moriarty in captivity to talk to Dumbledore, not mentioning that Harry, Ron and Hermione had been involved, although Professor Watson was briefly mentioned. Harry was grateful for this—he felt as if he really didn't need anymore attention. It amused him to see the picture that accompanied the article. It wasn't the mug shot that Harry had seen over the summer, but a photograph of him standing next to John in front of a black door with the numbers and letter "221B" on it. Sherlock's appearance was almost a complete transformation, but Harry could tell by the age of the two men that it was quite recent—his hair was cut, and his face cleaned, but it was the hat that did it. He was wearing a ridiculous gray hat with two bills, one on the front and one on the back, and what looked like a small brown bow on top. The photo was moving, and Sherlock looked at Harry with a slight smile at his lips, not really an arrogant smile like Harry had seen before, but a more innocent, content smile. Every once in awhile, he seemed to look at John next to him, who was looking about as happy as Harry had ever seen him.

The last night of term, it was announced that Gryffindor had won the House Cup again, largely due to all the points the Quidditch team had won with their victory. Harry roared like the house mascot with the rest of the house, unable to imagine if he'd ever felt so euphoric at the end of a school year. The year had passed with no one being seriously hurt (Harry had talked to Hannah Abbott briefly and seen she was okay), Gryffindor had won the House Cup and the Quidditch Cup for the first time since Harry had been at Hogwarts, and he wouldn't have to return to the Dursleys' the next day. He had found his godfather, and helped prove him innocent, and now he was going to go and live with him!

The ride back to London on the Hogwarts Express was cheerful for Harry, though he was slightly melancholy about having to part with his friends soon. Ron and Hermione seemed to see how happy he was to be leaving to live with Sherlock, though, and they seemed happy for him. He could see it in the little smiles they gave when they thought he wasn't looking. Along with Fred and George, they played more than an hour of exploding snap, and then lazily reminisced on the school year. Fred and George seemed slightly put-out that they hadn't come up with the idea of leaving Sherlock Holmes-related messages on the walls first.

"But that could be really serious!" said Hermione. "You could really scare someone, and the teachers may think there was about to be an attack!"

"Guess so," said George, shrugging. "Maybe we'd better stick to the _benign_ pranks," he said, smirking with Fred. Harry rolled his eyes.

When they had finally pulled into the platform at King's Cross station, Harry was quick to gather his trunk and Hedwig's cage, and he, Hermione and the Weasleys left the train together. Harry looked around for Sherlock, but he couldn't find him. His heart jumped up a little, and he started to worry that he'd somehow made a mistake. Sherlock's note had said he'd pick him up from the station after term ended, right?

He then noticed John, and saw him wave to him and start towards him through the crowd.

"Harry!" he said. "Sherlock's waiting outside. He wanted to avoid the crowd, so he asked me to get you. I just got back from Hogwarts myself a few hours ago, and I was over at Baker Street with him."

"Okay," said Harry. "Can you give me a minute?" he asked, gesturing to his friends.

"Sure," said John, seeing that Harry wanted to say goodbye.

Hermione hugged him, and Harry promised to write over the summer. "I'm sure you'll have lots to tell us…just stay out of trouble, okay, Harry?" she had said.

"What do you mean?" said Harry. "I always stay out of trouble!"

She laughed, and said goodbye to Ron too before going to meet her parents.

"I'll make sure you come over to stay again this summer," said Ron. "England's hosting the Quidditch World Cup, and you can't miss that!"

"Really?" asked Harry.

"Yeah, and Dad might be able to get tickets through work. I'll write to let you know."

"Great, thanks Ron!" said Harry.

"I guess I'll let you get off, then," said Ron, looking at John. "Have a great summer, mate."

"You too, Ron," said Harry, grinning.

He looked at John, and together they left the platform. Once they had passed though the magical barrier separating it from the Muggle world, Harry started to walk with John, who was showing no sign of a limp at all.

"So, is he…," Harry started, but then trailed off as he noticed a tall figure approaching them. He fell into step beside them, and Harry saw that it was Sherlock, in a long Muggle coat (even though it was summer) and without the hat.

"Hello, Harry," Sherlock said. Harry was struck by how different he looked than when he had seen him at Hogwarts, more like the photo that had appeared in the _Daily Prophet_. It was shocking how changed his appearance was, and though his face was obviously still much thinner and hollowed out from Azkaban and a year spent in hiding, he looked far more normal.

Then Harry remembered something, and said "The Dursleys! I didn't tell them that I'd be leaving with you, to go move in with you."

Sherlock grinned in a way that suggested he was very pleased with some sort of evil doing. "I saw to it. They won't be coming to London to pick you up, and I've told them that I'll be taking custody of you from now on."

"They're…you didn't…," said Harry uncertainly.

"They're fine," said Sherlock dismissively. "They didn't seem to want to talk for long though, which suited me just fine."

Harry looked at John, who was frowning slightly at his feet. _Oh well_, thought Harry. He wondered briefly to himself if he would ever see the last of his extended family again.

"So, I've been thinking about where you'll be sleeping, Harry," said Sherlock briskly as they walked further towards the exit of the station. "There are only two bedrooms in the flat, and John has the upstairs one, myself the one adjacent to the kitchen, so obviously—"

"Sherlock, I moved out," said John incredulously, looking at his friend as if stating something he was very surprised he hadn't already known.

"Yes," said Sherlock, as if this too were obvious, and he was waiting for his friend to say what relevance this had. "Obviously, you're too sentimental to have remained. You'll want your old room of course, you don't adjust to change easily, and have clearly be longing for the life you missed after I was taken to Azkaban—"

"Sherlock, why are you assuming I'd be moving back in with you? I never said I would," said John.

Sherlock stopped walking, and as Harry did too with the two men, he had to quickly avoid bumping into a woman holding a baby and walking the other way. The tall man was just looking at the other with a quizzical frown on his face.

"I have my own place now," said John. "And actually, I was thinking of moving in with my girlfriend soon."

"Girlfriend?!" yelped Sherlock, his controlled demeanor failing momentarily.

"Yeah, her name is Mary, but she doesn't really like that much, so everyone just calls her by her last name, Tonks," said John happily, oblivious to the surprise in Sherlock's reaction.

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something else, the crease along the bridge of his nose deepening as he looked at John critically with an expression that looked almost…hurt? Harry wasn't sure. Sherlock seemed to be an immensely complicated person, and Harry was starting to think it was going to take him a while to figure him out.

John seemed not to have noticed what Harry had, and the trio started walking again.

"Hm," was all Sherlock said. "I don't think I've heard of her."

"You'll have to meet her sometime!" said John. "I can invite you all over. You'd be welcome too, of course, Harry."

Harry smiled at him. "Thanks, John."

They stepped out into the gray sunlight of London, and John turned to other two. "I'll leave you here, okay? Want to let you two get settled and figure everything out. You'll be in touch, Sherlock?" he said, regarding his friend almost doubtfully.

"I promise, John," said Sherlock, looking at him with eyebrows slightly cocked and a slight curve to his mouth.

"Alright," said John. "I'll see you later, Harry," he said, offering his hand to Harry for a handshake. He grasped it, and smiled. "Take care, John."

Harry watched as he turned with a last look at Sherlock and started walking away down the street. "Where's he going?" he asked Sherlock quizzically.

"He's just going to find an empty place to Apparate," answered Sherlock. "Speaking of which, that's how we'll be getting to Baker Street."

"Apparating?" asked Harry. "I thought that was only for adults."

"It is, but underage wizards can travel by side-along Apparation. You don't happen to have your father's old cloak, do you?"

Harry didn't ask how he knew, just answered, "Yeah, I do."

"Excellent. If you could just get that out, we can use it to Apparate ourselves and not be seen by any of the Muggles."

Harry reached into his trunk to get out the cloak, and then he stood back up again. Sherlock waved his wand, and his trunk and Hedwig's cage vanished. "I've just sent them to the flat ahead of us."

"Hedwig—will she be okay?" asked Harry in alarm.

"She'll be fine. It's safe for animals," said Sherlock unconcernedly. "Now…yes, no one's watching us, quick, throw the cloak over us."

Harry did as instructed. "If we were just going to put it on like that in the street, why couldn't we just Apparate away then?"

"It takes slightly longer," answered Sherlock. "Now, hold onto my arm," he said, offering his right arm only a few inches away from the rest of his body. Harry grasped it tentatively, not sure how tightly he was permitted to hold it. Sherlock didn't move his arm at all, but said, "You might want to hold on more tightly. I am going to be trying to pull you with me to a new location."

Harry complied, starting to wonder just what he was getting into with Apparating. He really didn't know anything about it, except for that it allowed wizards and witches to disappear and appear somewhere else.

Without warning, Harry's feet were jerked from the ground forcefully as he was sucked away from the London pavement by means of Sherlock's arm. His eyes were closed, being pressed into the back of his skull as he realized that he couldn't breathe—wherever he was, there wasn't enough room for his lungs to expand and take in air. He would have gasped, or screamed, but he couldn't. There was such pressure around him that he couldn't tell where he was touching Sherlock and where it was just the rest of this oppressive environment.

And then, just as suddenly, his body was back in normal space, the freeness and lightness of the air shocking him into really gasping this time and then panting frantically for air. His head started spinning, and he clutched it firmly to try and steady himself. After a few moments of this, after he was fairly certain he wasn't in immediate danger of vomiting, he looked next to him at Sherlock, who was standing just as he had been beforehand, with his back straight and eyes surveying the area. Then he suddenly whipped the cloak off of them, apparently deciding that no Muggles were looking in their direction.

"Here it is," he said, pointing to a black door they were standing just feet away from. It was the door Harry had seen in the picture, with the marking "221B" on it in gold figures, and a knocker beneath that. Next to it was the umbrella of a deli advertised as Speedy's, and Harry looked up at it, still recovering from the very unpleasant and unsettling experience of Apparition.

Sherlock had already marched up the steps to the door, waiting for Harry there. Harry followed slowly, realizing that he probably wasn't about to receive any sympathy from Sherlock for his present state.

"You'll be having the upstairs bedroom," muttered Sherlock to himself. Then he tapped the lock with his wand, and pushed the door open.

There was a staircase that led upwards, and a door nearby with a translucent window. Sherlock began to take the stairs at a quick pace, and Harry followed, not sure what he was about to find. This was going to be his new home—what was it going to be like?

A few flights later, Harry found himself entering into a surprising homey and comfortable living room, considering that it was Sherlock who lived here. There was black couch with a dark brown and ivory wallpaper pattern behind it, with a yellow smiley face drawn onto it in what looked like spraypaint. On the other side of the room were two chairs facing each other with a mirror and a separate wallpaper pattern behind them. The stairs were facing the wall with windows and a desk against it. There was pillow with the pattern on the Union Jack thrown on the couch, and a skull adorning the mantle above the fireplace by the chairs. Harry walked around curiously, noticing that the kitchen connected to this room, and it contained a table strewn with what looked like three different potions brewing all at once.

Sherlock was standing stationary near where he had arrived, watching Harry closely.

"It's great," said Harry, thinking back to when he had first seen Ron's house, the Burrow. There seemed to be less obvious magic here, but Harry had a feeling that Sherlock would be selective in what kinds of magic he used in his flat and that he'd find some there soon.

"I think so," said Sherlock. "I'm not sure how good I'm going to be at this godfather stuff," he said matter of factly. "It was I who sent you the Firebolt, did you like it?"

Harry stared. "Wait, really? Did I like it? It was excellent! It's the best broom out there! I helped Gryffindor win the House Cup on it."

"I thought so," said Sherlock. "I came to your first game. You fly just as well as Greg did."

"Thanks." Harry wasn't sure what else to say to that. He knew he wanted to talk to Sherlock about his parents eventually, but he wasn't sure if this was the day. He wanted to get to know his godfather a little better first.

There was a loud hooting noise behind him, and Harry turned to see that Hedwig was perched in her cage on top of his trunk in the corner of the kitchen.

"Hedwig!" he said, going to her. He looked over his shoulder at Sherlock, who had flopped down onto the couch, throwing his coat to the floor. "D'you mind if I…?" he asked, indicating the latch. Sherlock shrugged, and Harry took that has permission and let his owl out. She hooted gratefully, and flew around the living room a little, stretching her wings. She came to rest on one of the horns of the mounted head of some sort of animal that was mounted to the wall between the windows.

"So," said Harry. "Um, what do you normally do?" he asked politely and curiously.

"I'm a consulting detective," said Sherlock with a hint of something like pride in his voice, though he hardly looked impressive in his reclining posture on the couch. "Only one in the world."

"Ah," said Harry.

"I solve crimes for the Auror office and other parts of the Ministry. When they're out of their depth, as they usually are, they consult me. And other clients bring their puzzles to me. I like a mental challenge."

"It seems like it," said Harry.

"And what about you?" asked Sherlock shrewdly. "Seems like you've solved a few puzzles at Hogwarts before." He seemed to be appraising him, almost as if _deducing_ him. Was that the right word?

Harry shrugged. "Ron and Hermione and I like to try and figure out what's going on, I guess. There always is at that school."

"Hm," said Sherlock. "It certainly seemed that way when I was there." Harry remembered what his professors and Mycroft Holmes had said about him unearthing a lot of crime at Hogwarts while he was school there and solving the mysteries.

"Do you…," said Harry. "Do you know who did the graffiti on the wall at Hogwarts that said 'GET SHERLOCK'?" he asked.

"Moriarty," Sherlock answered. "His idea of a little fun, spreading a little panic."

Harry's mind couldn't but help jump to Peeves and draw a parallel between the two.

There came from the stairs the sound of pounding footsteps—someone was bounding up them quickly. Sherlock cocked his eyebrows, turning to view the entryway. In a few moments, a wizard Harry didn't recognize stepped into the room, out of breath from his climb. He had on aubergine robes, and looked at Sherlock, addressing him. "Mr. Holmes," he gasped. "There's been a suspicious suicide. We need you to come investigate."

Sherlock jumped up from the couch, smiling wickedly. "What's the address?"

The wizard gave it to him, and Sherlock said "I'll meet you there. I like to travel separately."

The Ministry wizard, because Harry had figured out that was who he must be by now, nodded, looking uncertainly at him, and then let his eyes slide over to Harry. His gaze found the scar on his forehead, and his eyes widened noticeably. Then he shot a furtive glance at Sherlock, and rushed down the stairs hurriedly.

Sherlock looked at Harry, still smiling. Then he ruffled his hair up from the back and said, "Coming?"

Harry was surprised. He hadn't expected to be invited along on Sherlock Holmes's mysteries, but here the consulting detective was, asking him to accompany him. His eyebrows raised and jumped back down quickly, and he responded with a slightly breathless and excited "Yeah!"

"Excellent," said Sherlock, enunciating the consonants sharply. He started down the stairs briskly, and Harry dashed to follow after him, excitement starting to rise within him.

As they reached the bottom on the stairs, Sherlock called back to him, thrill and determination in his voice, "The game, Harry Potter, is on!"

THE END

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